


Shake My Tomb

by exactly13percent (superagentwolf)



Series: The AU Court [12]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Butcher Neil Josten, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 13:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15268095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/exactly13percent
Summary: Nathaniel Wesninski takes his father's life and his father's title at the age of twelve. He kills a man at thirteen.At eighteen, Kevin Day comes to him for help.The Butcher of Baltimore is a name that used to mean something. Under Nathaniel's direction, the Wesninski Family has become an entirely different beast. They are the shadow thrown by the fire of the Moriyamas. Nathaniel isn't one to interfere with something bigger and more dangerous than him, but Kevin's position means something to him. Kevin, and the strange family he brings with him.Maybe even Andrew, the one that challenges Nathaniel the most—and the one that Nathaniel finds himself drawn to. There's a lot at stake, though, and Nathaniel has nothing left to lose. Nothing but himself.





	1. Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Title/Song: You've Seen the Butcher - Deftones

He is ten when he decides to kill his father.

Nathaniel watches his mother die in a haze of smoke, blood pooling around her. He watches her eyes go flat. The light leaves and then it’s just a thing on the ground and not his mother. Not the woman that tried to save him.

“You are my son,” Nathan says. He kneels. There is a cigar in his left hand; it smells terrible. “My son.”

Nathaniel looks through his father. Through his eyes. He looks into the future and knows what he will do.

He decides two years will be enough.

* * *

He is eleven, and he learns.

Lola presses a knife into his palm and her smile is amused. Slick. She grins like poison. “You think you can hit me? Don’t even try.”

He could say he wasn’t thinking about killing her, but that would be a lie. He is, now.

Nathaniel trains. He trains until his body is sore and his limbs are lead, and then he trains some more. He learns how to take a knife—Lola enjoys that lesson too much—and a hundred ways to give one. He learns how to use the world around him, because he is thin and small and there’s not enough strength in him, yet.

“You are my son. You will stand,” Nathan says. He kicks Nathaniel over with the toe of his weighted boot.

Nathaniel rolls. His teeth are bared silently; he has to hold back the pain. He is bruised in so many places, but his father does not care. Nathan has one use for Nathaniel. He has need of a son. Nathaniel is his legacy; his pawn, in a game that’s gone on for years. Nathaniel is the wolf cub.

Someone should have told Nathan that cubs don’t stay in the pack. They leave and form their own. Except Nathan isn’t going to let Nathaniel leave, and Nathaniel won’t stay with his father.

There is something coming. Something Nathan can’t stop.

It will end with his death.

* * *

The thing about wolves is that they work with ravens.

Tetsuji calls Nathan to him with a familiar refrain. This is tradition. Ten years have passed and it is time to renew the vow.

Nathaniel goes. It is his place, now. He is silent and unbent, despite the scars that emerge from beneath the white ensemble he wears. White shirt, white pants, white shoes. He thinks he must make an amusing sight, standing before the all-black Moriyamas.

He does not see the boy he remembers, from two years ago. The different one.

He does see Riko.

Time hasn’t done anything but sharpen him. Riko is all sharp, from his dark eyes to his distasteful expression. Nathaniel ignores him. Riko is a child.

Tetsuji and Nathan exchange their pleasantries. Through it all, Nathaniel gauges the interaction. He sees, even if he is not meant to see. He sees the way Tetsuji gives Nathan passing notice and the way Nathan tries to stare him down with size alone. This is not an even partnership. It is a bomb waiting to detonate.

When Tetsuji stands before him, Nathaniel opens his mouth and speaks in Japanese. “It is an honor, Lord Moriyama. May the wind carry you above your enemies.”

He’s not certain it’s a good choice until he sees the spark in Tetsuji’s eyes and the way he evaluates Nathaniel. He has learned a truth that Nathaniel has given. A shared secret.

Of course, Nathan is furious. Not that he says so.

But Nathaniel knows he will pay dearly, later. For now, Nathaniel simply takes his place by his father and listens to the conversation.

Midway through, Tetsuji decides to test him.

“Riko is in need of a change. Perhaps you would play a match against him?”

“I would be honored.”

Tetsuji lifts his glass to his mouth and pauses. “We do not have a uniform for you.”

“I have been taught not to dirty that which is not mine,” Nathaniel says. Tetsuji evaluates—the words, the white that Nathaniel wears, the situation—and then he nods.

Nathaniel takes the court in his white ensemble. Things change, when he steps onto it.

He has not been taught the way the Ravens have. He knows full well that he cannot rely on training to get him through. What Nathaniel does know is that Riko is a child, in every sense of the word. He is sharp and petty and one well-placed word could undo him. All Nathaniel has to do is push and push at the same spot, until he has what he wants.

Nathaniel might not be able to fly, but he can run. He’s the fastest person he knows.

Riko is swift. His smirk and his stare are bold. He fears nothing on the court; he has been taught to fear nothing.

But Nathaniel fears everything. He has lived his entire life with that fear. It drives him to look over his shoulder not once, not twice, but three times. It drives him to sleep in corners, only for a short time, and to reteach himself how to breathe in the mornings.

The fear is not his center. He knows it, but it does not know him—because there is something more important than the fear.

His survival.

Nathaniel knows that this is his only chance. Without the proof of his performance, he will never escape. He will only always be running.

He can’t do that.

So, Nathaniel takes all that Riko gives and eggs him on. The first half of their skirmish is simple; Riko pushes. He wins every time because he is simply better. But Nathaniel notices all the moves, and he starts to push back. The second half is all him—all pointed shots not meant to hit the goal, but meant to trip Riko. Riko has to dodge the ball and then round on Nathaniel, and the last-minute changes in pace irritate him.

When Nathaniel is close enough, he murmurs, “This is the future king? You are more pigeon than raven.”

Riko snaps. His anger comes out in full force and his racquet swings at Nathaniel. It hits his face and he tastes the coppery tang of blood for a moment.

Tetsuji stands.

Riko is immediately on his knees. The bow does nothing to assuage the aura of fury that surrounds him.

Nathaniel and Riko are summoned before the game is over. As it stands, Nathaniel would have had to make five goals to catch up. He thinks he could have, given the proper words.

“That was improper,” Tetsuji says. He turns from Nathaniel to Riko. The backhanded slap he strikes Riko with echoes in the room. Nathaniel notes the moment of shock and the rising tear in Riko’s eye.

The crack rings long after the moment passes.

“Children can be temperamental,” Nathaniel says. He keeps his voice even and devoid of any emotion, even if he feels a flicker of fire in his chest.

Riko turns to glare, but Tetsuji catches his chin in one hand. He doesn’t look at Riko; his eyes are still on Nathaniel. Still dark and unreadable. “Perhaps. They also believe they are more powerful than they are.”

“Perhaps,” Nathaniel says. He switches to Japanese, both because Nathan is not close enough to hear and because he needs his words to hit home. “Yet if you stand under a plum tree and fruit falls into your hand, it does not matter what anyone thinks. The fruit is yours.”

“Perhaps,” Tetsuji echoes. Soft. Dangerous.

But not necessarily warning.

Nathaniel retreats for the evening. The meeting wears on and then he leaves, with his father dark and quiet.

There will be hell waiting, when they arrive home. But it doesn’t matter. There is a ripe plum just within Nathaniel’s grasp, and it is about to fall into his waiting hand.

* * *

Kevin hears snatches of it. Never enough—he is always kept away, or busy. But he hears.

Their Butcher is in danger.

The mantle has always been one that Kevin is wary of. He has met the man. The Butcher is efficient and he is cruel. Some say he was once a father. Kevin doesn't know. He knows only routine and pain and laughter.

He wonders what would happen, if Riko became the Lord of the castle. Kevin thinks he’d probably rather die.

* * *

Nathaniel is thirteen—one year past killing his father—and someone challenges him.

He walks into his home to find people waiting. Most of them, he knows—the brothers that are his security, Lola, a handful of others. He is aware of just how close this is to a council meeting. It makes him want to laugh.

Instead, he walks past them and into the kitchen. “You have something for me, if you are here,” he says. Then, softly, “Or you should not be here.”

He waits. Lets it stretch.

The others finally come into the kitchen. There is irritation on one man’s face—Bruno, he thinks—and Nathaniel does laugh. It only makes Bruno angrier.

“This legacy does not belong in the hands of a child.”

Nathaniel fills his glass with orange juice. He is still in his running clothes. “I agree. You will never head the family.”

Bruno snarls. Nathaniel ducks out of the way of the incoming knife. He hears the whoosh by his ear and slides his foot a little to the right.

He notices no one else comes to fight.

Whatever crime the Wesninski family is involved in, they have their rules. A fight is man-to-man. The only things involved are blades and strength.

Nathaniel has never been strong.

He is fast, though. He is fast enough to dodge and then he downs the juice in one go while Bruno whirls around to attack again. Nathaniel takes the empty glass and slams it against Bruno’s temple. When Nathaniel hears a pained growl, he ducks under Bruno’s arm and shatters the glass on the counter. He takes a glass shard and holds it to the man’s neck.

He does not have to use strength to subdue Bruno. All he needs is the glass, patience, and the audience that watches them.

“You are a liability to this family,” Nathaniel says. He is quiet. The audience tenses, holds their breath, leans in.

This is it.

The thing about butchers is, they get dirty. Their line of work is the end of the line. The beginning. All things end and begin with the blade—life, and what comes after.

Nathaniel thinks there’s something poetic about how the first man he butchered is one that attacked him in the kitchen.

Most of it isn’t loud. Nathaniel has learned well. He takes the man’s life—his vein—in a swift move. Nathaniel maneuvers the body to the sink, where the blood trickles down the man’s neck and into the stainless steel. The smell is thick. Nathaniel watches for a moment and remembers.

“Cleaners,” Nathaniel says, idle. He muses over the glass shards on the counter. “Are there any further objections?”

He is met with silence. Silence, and the way Lola’s gaze and smile are tighter. She is next, he thinks. Not now—maybe not even this year—but she will come for him.

He will be more than ready.

* * *

Nathaniel takes great pains to keep his business apart from the Moriyamas. Where Nathan was bound, Nathaniel is not. The Wesninski name—the Butcher’s role—is not what it once was.

Not that Nathaniel is free. He is very aware of just how he must be; just how many things could go wrong. One misstep, and the Moriyama family could come down on him.

Nathaniel spends his first four years reordering his empire. He cuts back the unnecessary—the thugs in big cities, the webs in smaller ones. He pares down his foot soldiers to the thinnest numbers.

Thinnest, but most effective.

Under his careful hand, Nathaniel’s web of influence changes. Nathan’s legacy of terror and menace morphs into something much quieter—a network of hidden agents with unimportant names and faces. Nathaniel sends the everyman to each crossroads, to be his eyes and ears. He organizes his players in big cities but small bars, to do their business with travelers that will never remember or tell.

Nathaniel’s kingdom is the shadow to the Moriyamas’ sun. He likes it that way.

-

Andrew is aware that something is going to happen. He is not sure what, and he does not care. Not much, at least.

He cares enough about how much more difficult it will make his duty. His promise.

Kevin fidgets and Wymack looks tired. The rest of the team know something is up. Even Seth doesn’t speak, but the displeased line of his mouth is set firmly in place.

“I think I might know someone who can help us,” Kevin says.

Dan speaks first. “At what cost?”

Silence.

Kevin moves words around his mouth like marbles. Andrew barely gives him a sideways glance. Whatever this is, he hasn’t heard about it. Not yet, at least. It makes him irritated—gets under his skin—but he doesn’t resent it. He can’t.

Not much.

“There’s—he’s not the same, I don’t think,” Kevin starts to say. Andrew feels his irritation mount an inch. Kevin corrects himself. “The person I’m talking about—I met him, once.”

“Another you,” Andrew says. Light, but warning. This is not going to end well. “That’s no help.”

“No. He’s not like me.”

Even worse, Andrew doesn’t say. Kevin, he knows how to deal with. Someone new—someone with motivations and a web of people—is not possible. Especially if they could separate him from Kevin.

That’s all that matters, either way. He has a promise to keep.

“Do we know this person?” Allison asks. She says it like she doesn’t care, but she’s stretching a hairband between her fingers with increasingly agitated movements.

“I don’t know. Have you ever heard of the Butcher of Baltimore?”

The collective inhale is sharp. Renee looks to Andrew, eyes narrowed. Did you know? No, he says back, with just a tilt of his head.

They all know the Butcher. Of course, they do. No matter what level of what crime they all left, they know. There’s no way not to know the name.

There’s no way to avoid the news reports. The way some of their childhoods were marked by warnings not to play outside too late, and others were marked by whispers of rivals being slaughtered in the night.

Bloody corpses and efficient death.

Andrew is tempted to hit Kevin in the head. He is tempted to grab him by the throat and ask what the fuck he is trying to do. How he thinks he can stand toe-to-toe with a man—one about the same age as Tetsuji—and hold his ground.

How he would bring Andrew and the others into that kind of environment.

“This is going to be hard,” Wymack says carefully. “Which is why I’m going.”

The arguments practically explode. Andrew sits back while they unfold. Dan—because she sees Wymack as her father—is the loudest. Matt is right beside her. Even Renee is cautious about the idea.

Andrew waits for a lull. He waits for Wymack to speak again.

“Kevin and Andrew will come with me. As long as we have someone that will be missed—me—there won’t be issues. Kevin knows the guy. We’ll be quick. The rest of you will stay here, because I’m not risking the entire team on a chance.”

“You are,” Andrew says. “Not bringing them will not change anything. This is a risk you are going to take, and there will be no escaping the consequences.”

Kevin and Wymack don’t say anything. They know he’s right.

* * *

Nathaniel receives the very respectful request through one of his people. Dinah, in Columbia. She passes it on via her runner and then Bella comes to his office.

Bella is nice. Probably too nice for the Wesninskis, but she tries very hard to be hard. Nathaniel appreciates her too much to throw her out.

And she would take a knife for him.

“Someone is looking for you.”

“Someone,” Nathaniel repeats. He knows, somehow, by the pit in his stomach.

Bella shifts on her feet. Her fingers trace the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh, as if there’s a physical threat she can just stick a knife into. “The wayward Raven.”

Kevin.

Nathaniel traces letters onto his desk. P, S, U. Foxes. He can’t say he didn’t watch.

There has always been a distant resentfulness to Nathaniel’s watching. He thinks, sometimes, that Kevin could have been him. That if his mother were not dead—if he were strong enough to run—he might have been the same. That if he had chosen escape over finality, Exy over peace, he could have been Kevin.

He is not Kevin.

“Let’s extend an invitation,” Nathaniel says slowly. Bella inhales slowly. Her shoulder set in place, rigid.

“How?”

“Have Dinah give it to Roland.”

“That might compromise her.”

“Maybe. But they’ll come.”

Bella hesitates. He can see the warring instincts in her face—her desire to protect the family and her determination to follow orders—before there is nothing. She is a clean slate.

Too clean. Like a surface scrubbed of death.

“I’ll do it.”

* * *

Andrew goes for more drinks. When he does, Roland’s tray has an envelope on it. Andrew presses his lips together and carries everything back to the table.

Kevin sees the envelope. The little flower on the seam, blood-red and swirling with the whorls of a thumbprint. It blooms still, as if freshly placed. Kevin reaches for it and then aborts, his hand going to a drink, instead.

Of course.

Andrew waits for Kevin to down a drink and then he speaks. “We’re going.”

Kevin doesn’t argue. Nicky and Aaron don’t, either. They go back to the house and Andrew takes one of the knives at his arm and flicks the envelope open. After he checks it, he passes it to Kevin.

He does not care what Kevin’s reaction is. He cares what comes next.

After a moment, Kevin slides the letter to Andrew. He looks somewhere else—maybe into the past he can’t fucking let go of, or into the future he thinks he doesn’t have.

“Tomorrow. Arizona.”


	2. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin turns to the Butcher for help. Nathaniel agrees, but only because he knows. He's seen this coming.  
> Maybe there isn't much left to him—maybe there is no him, anymore. But whatever he has, Neil is going to give to the Foxes. They can take what they need, so long as he has his chance. So long as he can take the Moriyamas down.

He shouldn’t be nervous. He is the Butcher.

But Kevin is the past come to haunt him, and Nathaniel has spent his entire life running from his past—even if his feet have stayed firmly rooted in place.

“They’re on their way,” Bella says. She peers out of the window, from a tiny crack in the curtains.

Nathaniel nods. He is silent. There’s not much he can say. Not now.

The house they are in was his mother’s, once. Nathaniel had not come back to it since that night, when he was ten and part of his world ended. When he watched her choke on her blood and the knife his father slid across her throat.

He does not like to think about it. Some of the curtains still smell like smoke.

Nathaniel rises from his desk to stand by the window. The house is furnished the way any safe house would be—sparsely, but with enough heavy objects to throw on an attacker. Enough bookcases to cover the secret passages and exits. There is a falsity to the house; it is a house pretending to be a home. There are bedsheets and books and knickknacks, but Nathaniel doesn’t know where any of them are from. They were not his, or his mother’s. They are fakes, just like the house.

Just like him.

“Would you like me inside, or at the door?” Bella asks. Routine questions. She says nothing about Mary, or the house. She knows better. She was a child in this world, too.

Nathaniel considers. “Door.”

Bella nods. She turns on her heel, but she pauses just with a hand on the doorknob. He can see conflict in the line of her back. He wonders if it is just his people he knows so well, or if something in him changed to read tension and danger. He thinks maybe both are right.

“I’ll listen.”

“Do.”

The door shuts behind her after the promise. Nathaniel closes his eyes—behind them are written the folders of all the Foxes. He knows their names, their birthdays, their pasts. Their entanglements. He knows very well what kind of a man Wymack is and what kind of players he recruits.

Nathaniel knows a lot that isn’t in the files, too. He knows from his mole at Eden’s Twilight that Kevin drinks too much. That Andrew Minyard has a twin, and they are at odds. That Andrew does not allow touch and always watches. That Nicky Hemmick is the brightest of them all, but he is not untouched by the same mud they are all covered in.

But Nathaniel is born from dirt. He clawed his way out of his grave a long time ago, and he has the broken body to prove it.

He stops thinking when he hears voices outside the door. Bella speaks. “He will see you at the desk. If you try something, you will be stopped.”

“Aren’t you a bit far from him to stop anything?” A flat voice. Not challenging, but evaluating. Maybe a little unimpressed, like he expected better. Nathaniel assumes it is Andrew. Kevin would never say something that bold.

Bella snorts. “I don’t need to stop anything. He could kill you before the knife left your hand.”

True.

The door swings open and Nathaniel hears footsteps. He doesn’t turn around yet, because he feels the burn of memory and anticipation in his veins. He can remember a very different day like this, when he was the one going to meet his uncertain future and possible death.

Apparently, the tables have turned.

“What is this? A game?” Someone mutters. Nathaniel guesses it is Wymack, with his gruff voice. He’s trying to be quiet—maybe for Nathaniel’s benefit—but he does a poor job. “If this is an intimidation tactic—”

“No,” Kevin says, “it’s not a tactic. He doesn’t need a tactic.”

His voice is strained. Nathaniel wonders just how often Kevin heard horror stories to bolster the two times he saw Nathan. Even one would have been enough. Even the sight of Nathan alone would have done well.

Nathaniel turns halfway and realizes they’re all facing the opposite direction. Not one has turned to look at him.

Not even Andrew, whose black bands are quite obviously hiding knives. Whose posture says he is solely invested in Kevin, and not anything else. Not even Wymack.

That makes Nathaniel’s heart twinge with something sour.

He should not be jealous of Kevin. He should not wish his life went some different way—Nathan is dead and there is no more threat to Nathaniel. He has his life.

But not a life.

Nathaniel gives up his silence. He crosses his arms and contemplates what he should say. What comes out of his mouth is, “You’re right. No tactic.”

Kevin whirls. It takes only a moment for him to notice the red hair and blue eyes, and then there’s a look of disbelief and a rush of sympathy in his expression.

“You’re…”

“Jesus,” Wymack sighs. “One kid was bad enough, but two? What kind of monster does this?”

Nathaniel almost laughs. He would point out that Bella is twenty-five, or that he is technically a legal adult. That age doesn’t matter and sometimes, when you are born into something, survival dictates that you stay.

Instead, he moves from the window and toward the desk. He sees Andrew track his movement and knows that Andrew is the only one that knows. That has realized.

That’s interesting.

Nathaniel stands behind his desk; he does not sit. He stands there and rights a silver letter opener that gleams in the light. He digs the tip into the worn groove on the desk and starts to twirl it. Each spin chips away another millimeter.

May as well keep the tradition, right?

“So,” Nathaniel says. “What brings you here?”

“The Butcher,” Kevin says. His answer is thin and strained, a rubber band pulled just enough to snap.

“Clearly. Are you going to tell me what you wanted, or are we going in circles all day? I thought you were a fox, not a dog. Chasing your own tail seems beneath you.”

Kevin stares at Nathaniel like he is the stupid one, or perhaps crazy. He seems to have remembered something, because he opens his mouth and says, “Nathan is—"

“Dead.”

Kevin freezes. His eyes widen and the first hint of panic invades them. Nathaniel placidly waits for the next words. He notices Andrew’s posture shift.

This has gone from a conversation to an apology.

Kevin starts to speak. “But—”

“He,” Nathaniel stresses, ignoring the name that hangs in the air, “has been dead for six years. I am the Butcher.”

He feels a little smug, having said it. Just a little.

Nathaniel can see Wymack do the mental math. The man looks equal parts disturbed and sympathetic. He is probably, Nathaniel thinks, warring with his desire to help sob stories and his distrust of crime lords.

Understandable.

“But you—that was—” Kevin says. He stops and starts so much Nathaniel is reminded of a stalling car.

“I was twelve,” Nathaniel affirms. “Remind me why this is important. I came from Baltimore to meet you, Kevin. I am not here for your shock, or your pity, or your inferiority complex. I am not here to tell you what a good job you have done, or that your escape from the Moriyamas was singlehandedly successful. I am not even here for old times’ sake. So. Tell me. What it is. You want.”

He emphasizes each part of his last sentence with quiet warning. Nathaniel does not want to be in the house. He does not want to be in Arizona, or in this place. He does not want the reminder that he is hanging onto life, until someone kills him for what he’s done.

He does not want to be reminded that this is entirely his fault.

“I need your help,” Kevin says. Wymack makes a startled noise; this was not part of the plan. He moves as if to shut Kevin up, but Kevin leans close over the desk. “I am going to win, this year. With the Foxes. Riko is going to try everything he can to hurt my team. I need your help to fight him.”

Help, Nathaniel thinks. He wonders what help could have saved his mother from death, or him from killing. He wonders what help could have turned his path some other way.

He has never had help. He has only ever had himself, and the blood-soaked drive to live.

Unfortunately, they are too entangled.

Nathaniel has been knotted around Kevin since they first met. Since he was ten and knew he was in danger of being sold, only for his mother to try and save him and be killed instead. Nathaniel walked a path along Kevin up to that point, and then Nathaniel chose. He chose Kevin’s life over his own. He chose to give one person the chance to bring down the house of cards and gave up his own freedom in the process.

Killing Nathan wasn’t just about saving Nathaniel. If it were up to him, he would have run, just like his mother wanted. She is probably looking on him now, disgusted.

No. Killing Nathan saved everyone the Moriyamas would have had him kill. It is going to save Kevin, now. Because Nathaniel’s empire is not Nathan’s, and he has no oath to the Moriyamas. He has no ties to call him away. He is on equal footing with the Moriyamas, and he will use every tool at his disposal to bring them down silently.

He is the shadow they cast, after all.

“You will not openly fight them,” Nathaniel says lowly. “You cannot.”

“I must. You know—”

“I do. I know better than you.”

“You don’t know Riko,” Kevin says, vehement. “You didn’t grow up with him. You weren’t—”

“But I was,” Nathaniel says evenly. “Did you forget? I played with you both when I was ten. At twelve, I faced him alone on the court. At thirteen, I formally met the family. At fourteen, I sent off spies he sent when he was bored. At fifteen, _he bowed to me_. Should I continue?”

Kevin is pale. There is strain in his voice when he says, “He will not. He does not bow. He cannot allow you to live.”

“He has no choice,” Nathaniel says. He smiles a little—a half-pull at the corner of his mouth; a remnant of his father he cannot burn out. “The more he tries, the more he disgraces Tetsuji. Of course, you already knew that. And so did I.”

“You’re trying to goad him.”

“Succeeding,” Nathaniel corrects. “You know what having assassins after you at sixteen is like? Puts a damper on the birthday party.”

“Wait,” Wymack interrupts. “Just so I understand—you’re saying you’ll help, how? By making him come after you? That’s not comforting, or smart.”

“I am not here to comfort you. And you may not see it, but it is smart—and it is the only way. If I join your team, Riko will be more than tempted to make a move. When he does, it will be easy to catch him.”

“And what about the Foxes?” Andrew asks. His first words. From the way he speaks, it sounds as if he doesn’t care—and he really doesn’t, Nathaniel thinks, except for maybe his twin brother and Kevin. “You say he will come after you, but he will come after the rest, instead. That’s what you are supposed to prevent.”

Nathaniel’s elbows are on the desk. He leans forward to rest his chin on his palms. He surveys the three men before him and wonders why he is going to risk his life over this.

He wonders what’s stopping him from simply killing the entire Moriyama family.

“Riko must treat me as he does his Master,” Nathaniel says coolly. “But in close quarters, he will not want to. You are right. He will come after everyone else. But he will not get far. Did you not wonder how I contacted you at the club? Or how I knew you wanted to meet me in the first place?”

“A mole. Obviously,” Andrew adds.

Nathaniel smirks. “Who?”

Silence. I thought so, Nathaniel thinks.

“My people aren’t seen,” Nathaniel says. “That’s the thing about those Ravens. They’re so big, they’re hard to miss.”

“Just to be clear,” Wymack repeats, irritated, “your offer is to bring Riko’s wrath down on us and hopefully catch him before he hits each time?”

“Not hopefully,” Nathaniel says. “I will.”

* * *

“This is such a shitty idea.”

“Do you have a better one?”

Bella looks him right in the eyes. “This is such a shitty idea.”

She’s stressed, but it’s a healthy amount of worry. Nathaniel should be worried, but instead, all he can feel is the adrenaline rush that comes with the knowledge that he will be out.

Not quite free, but something like it.

The campus before him is one he’s seen before—but never in person. He has never allowed himself that close. Has never been allowed so close. Now, Nathaniel is driven to the nearly-empty parking lot of the Exy stadium. He imagines the Foxes wait for him inside, probably talking about him or trying to get information from Kevin.

Not that Kevin will give it.

“You know who’s in the area,” Bella says. She drums her fingers over the steering wheel.

“I do. Take a hard line with anything that happens while I’m gone.”

“I will.”

That’s it.

* * *

Andrew leans back on the sofa and waits. He doesn’t mind the conversations swirling around the room. His mind is still a few days in the past, on the exchange in Arizona. He shouldn’t be so interested in what happened, but he is.

Nathaniel is odd. He does not seem quite real—he is a book character, or some movie antihero that emerged into the world fully-formed and unbelievable. Andrew still isn’t sure that he is a concrete being. Part of him wonders if the entire thing was just imagined, and the man that’s about to walk through the door will be the other Butcher.

“Now, listen—” Wymack starts. He never gets to finish. The door opens, and in comes Nathaniel.

He even looks unreal. He has blue eyes Andrew could spot from miles away and red-brown hair that seems to defy the laws of physics. He is also covered in scars the same way his face is covered in freckles—dark spots that break the pigment of his skin like paint.

Nathaniel looks like something that should be very broken beyond repair, but he moves like he has just been assembled. Like some haunted soul inhabited a pile of twisted metal and forced it to walk upright.

“Where’s the locker room?”

Andrew considers stabbing himself, or Kevin, or Nathaniel. Maybe all three. Nathaniel’s words linger in the air and Wymack clears his throat.

“To the left. Before—”

Nathaniel turns and walks away. Wymack buries his face in his hands.

Dan and Matt exchange looks. Andrew can already see the plans racing through their minds. They’re probably going to treat this intruder like family, or something—after they get over the fact that he’s younger than them. That the person Kevin trusted to ask for help is no more than eighteen.

Eighteen, and such a scarred thing.

Kevin is the first to follow him. Of course, he does. Kevin does not believe in anything unnecessary. He can’t.

He only believes in winning and training; both things that do not require Nathaniel to feel happy or warm or accepted. Kevin follows Nathaniel to the court and Andrew goes because he has to.

They make quite the fucked-up trio.

* * *

“You’re staying here and going to school,” Wymack says.

Nathaniel can see a flicker in Andrew’s eyes, in his periphery. The asshole knew, and he’s holding back his version of a laugh.

Did Wymack think he could tire Nathaniel out of an argument? How stupid.

“No.”

“Yes. There’s no way you’ll be allowed otherwise. You should know that—”

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” Nathaniel says. He feels the not-smile twist his face.

Wymack looks very tired. Nathaniel wonders if the man thought this out at all. “Listen—we’d rather keep this as open as possible. No reason to give him ammunition.”

Ammunition, Nathaniel thinks. He distantly remembers Lola holding a gun to his head when he was six. She laughed.

Kevin decides it’s his turn to interrupt. Instead of the refusal Nathaniel expects, his mouth opens and he says, “He’s right. You’ll need to be here for convenience. I don’t want to waste time.”

“It’s funny how you think I’m paying you, and not the other way around.”

Andrew’s gaze sharpens. He swings from Kevin to Nathaniel. It’s an interesting shift, but one Nathaniel expected. Andrew does not like being uninformed, and he thinks he knows everything about Kevin.

Maybe he does.

It doesn’t matter. Nathaniel has successfully stuck Kevin in a bad place, but he doesn’t feel good about it. Instead, he’s tired. He doesn’t want to fight.

He’s not going to last long enough to waste his energy on this.

“If I’m going to be a student, I’m going to need a name,” Nathaniel muses. “I have what I need. Point me in the right direction and I’ll be a model student.”

“I don’t believe you,” Wymack says tiredly, but he turns away from the court and beckons over his shoulder. “But I don’t really have a choice.”

He’s right. He doesn’t.

* * *

“Who’s Neil?”

“Me.”

Matt stands in the doorway, where he has been told to stay. He didn’t put up a fight when Neil told him to stand there, or when he was told to turn around. Matt is very accommodating.

Most of the Foxes are.

Neil isn’t sure what to do with this. Given a moment to breathe, he’s not sure what to do with anything. With himself, even.

For now, he sets up his safe and tucks away the things he needs with him at all times. A box, a bullet, a bottle. His folder. His empire’s bible. They’re all shoved into the safe, and then Neil stands in the center of the room, uncertain.

Matt breaks him out of it, again. “I’m pretty sure Kevin hasn’t told you, so—thanks.”

“…what for?”

Neil watches Matt hesitate. Neil sighs his approval and Matt turns. He’s very tall. He is taller than Neil, and all that Neil can think about is what the most effective way to bring him down would be.

“For helping,” Matt says. His expression is serious. “All of us walked away—got away from something. You’re going into it.”

“What makes you think I was ever out?”

That seems to do something. Matt no longer looks like he’s having a conversation with the Butcher. He looks like he’s talking to just another kid—another eighteen-year-old freshman that should not be covered in scars. That should not be betting his hand against a crime lord.

“You don’t have to stay. We don’t want to take anything from you,” Matt starts to explain.

Neil can’t really hear it. “You’re not taking,” he says. “I have nothing.”

Nothing. Nathaniel. Neil.

They all kind of look the same.

* * *

“I thought Kevin was actually going to own his shit, but I guess we’ll just have to take you.”

Seth is an asshole, Neil thinks. He’s the kind of jerk that’s louder than he is powerful. He talks a lot about shit he really shouldn’t and he uses homophobic slurs all the time around Nicky.

Andrew doesn’t like it. It’s one of the few human aspects Neil has noticed about him.

Anyway, Neil just looks at Seth and considers whether he should answer. He could. Nathaniel would.

But this is Neil, and Neil is supposed to be a student. A freshman. A Fox, a striker, a new recruit. He’s supposed to be the one thing that holds the team together, against Riko.

So, he doesn’t say anything.

Matt goes off because Seth forgot to check if he was around. Neil tunes them out and flips through his Spanish book.

The last two weeks have been something like he thinks fun should be. His body aches regularly from practice and training, but it’s a good ache.

Not like when Lola forced him to survive.

Neil sometimes thinks he can fade. That everything that waits just one foot off-campus can wait on him. That it will be suspended indefinitely and nothing will happen, while he’s at college, playing normal. He thinks sometimes that he could just stay out. He knows it’s not possible. There will always need to be someone to pick up the pieces—and someone will rise up.

They always do.

There’s a knock on their door. Neil doesn’t move from his seat on the couch. He just keeps reading his book. Matt takes a breath from tearing Seth a new one and goes to the door. It’s Nicky.

“Hi,” Nicky says. His smile is a wince, which is strange. Neil narrows his eyes and peers over his book. “I, ah—I’m just here to see Neil.”

“I’m not hiding,” Neil says. He can’t help it.

Nicky laughs awkwardly. Even Seth senses something is off. He leans off the couch a little like he’s trying to eavesdrop. They aren’t even three feet apart.

“Well, uh—we’re going to Columbia tonight—”

“No,” Matt says. His reaction is violent—the single word is harsh and he is across the room in two steps.

“Look, Andrew—”

“I don’t give a shit what Andrew wants. He has what he needs. Kevin went to Neil—”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Yes, it does. What kind of hypocrite—”

“What’s in the bag?”

The argument ends at Neil’s question. Nicky looks down at the black bag with an uneasy expression. Neil has a sudden, vivid memory of Mary depositing a bag on Nathan’s desk. It dripped blood.

He forcibly shoves the image from his mind and waits for an answer.

“It’s, uh—clothes.”

“…what.”

“An outfit,” Nicky says. He brightens a little too much. He’s trying to compensate for the argument. Of course, what starts as nervous energy morphs into his usual sunny fervor. “I picked it out! It’s great, I promise!”

Neil doesn’t say he has a basic idea of what constitutes appropriate fashion, at least in his world. He doesn’t mention the bespoke suit he has back in Baltimore, or the neatly tailored white outfits near the back of his closet.

He doesn’t wear those often. It’s never for a good occasion.

“All right.”

“Neil,” Matt says. His eyes are pleading. He probably wants to talk privately, but Neil isn’t bothered by the invitation.

Worst case, he has someone at the club.

“I’m fine.”

Seth is the one to speak up, this time. “I don’t think you know what that means.”

* * *

Neil has noticed that Seth has a problem. This is why, after he changes, he turns to the man.

It’s why he says, “You’re coming with me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now.”

Seth looks two seconds away from a physical fight. Neil can hear Matt practically run out from the bedroom, which is amusing.

“Hey. Wait, hold on—why do you need him?”

“Because he’s probably going to die if I’m not watching him.”

Matt exchanges a look with Seth. He looks almost as tired as Wymack. Neil feels a little bad about that. Matt’s a good person. He’s like Bella. The type that would probably jump in front of a bullet or a knife. Maybe it’s a little stupid, but it’s also a little brave.

It’s very desirable.

“Okay,” Matt says slowly. “Why? And what about the rest of us, here?”

“He’s the easy target,” Neil says. He shrugs. Seth reddens.

“I think I said fuck you.”

“I think I said now.”

“All right,” Matt says. He raises his voice a little. His brow is knit and he looks a little ill. He rounds on Seth, but Neil can still see half of his determined expression. “If you won’t go with him, I’ll go with you. Or I can always tell Allison—”

“Hey—”

Neil doesn’t have time for another argument. He really doesn’t.

He is also very tired of the way the Foxes are split into pieces. They can’t function. He knows this—he knows how much they’re hobbled by their infighting. And if they’re hobbled, it makes what he has to do that much harder.

Neil steps up to Seth. He stands before him, toe-to-toe, and takes his shot.

Nathaniel would go the easy route—the guaranteed one, with a blade and a word. Neil wouldn’t do that.

“Look. Kevin asked me to help, and as much as I want him to start cleaning up his own shit, I also know he’s too stupid to do that, yet. So, why don’t we make this easy? I’m not going back out after this. I’ll keep an eye on you without dragging you along to places you don’t want to go, but you have to come this time. Andrew has posturing to do and I want to get this over with.”

Seth’s jaw flexes. Neil watches it impassively—or at least, he tries—and then the silence is broken.

“Fine. But if anyone fucking touches me, I’m going to kill them.”

“What?”

* * *

Andrew is uninterested in the specifics. He is, however, unamused by Neil’s choice.

Seth is not one of Andrew’s favorite people. In fact, he’s probably one of Andrew’s least favorite people. For multiple reasons.

“I don’t remember saying you could invite anyone,” Andrew says.

“I remember being asked to help.”

Andrew pauses. He’s not an idiot; he knows Seth is the weakest of the team. The most likely to be targeted.

He just doesn’t exactly care.

“I’m not interested.”

“But you are interested in me. So, he comes.”

Andrew is tempted to reach out and—

—something.

Instead, he fights a growl and says, “He’s not coming with me.”

Neil shrugs. Turns to Seth and follows him to a different car.

Andrew tries very hard not to be angry.

The drive isn’t fun. Of course, it isn’t. He is five steps from sober, and on the way, he feels his stomach twist. This is not enjoyable. Coming off what he’s given is probably something he would hate, if he could hate anything. If he was capable of caring, he would care a lot that Neil makes him do this.

Instead, Andrew shoves down the stomach acid and his reaction. He waits until they go to the diner, where Nicky keeps sending him looks.

There are more of them than usual, so they’re set up at two tables that are squashed together in a corner. This is another thing that irritates Andrew.

He is very irritated by the time their ice cream comes.

Neil doesn’t eat any. He leans back in his chair, arms over the sides, one foot on the seat and his other leg sideways. Andrew thinks about how Neil can’t be a human properly and it makes sense that he can’t sit properly, either. He does not linger on the curve of Neil’s thigh on the seat.

“So, you’re from Baltimore?” Nicky asks. His eyes are bright. His ice cream is a mess of chocolate and syrup.

“Yes,” Neil says. Something hard slides over his eyes. Like a shield, maybe—but Andrew can’t tell if it’s for him, or for the outside world.

“It snows a lot, right? Is it cool? I only ever saw snow in Germany, and I wasn’t there long enough.”

“Germany?”

“Yeah. Erik lives there—he’s my fiancée,” Nicky says. He laughs and launches into his story while Andrew examines Neil.

Andrew didn’t miss the way Neil redirected the conversation. It was an easy trick, but Nicky is easy to get started when he mentions Erik.

The itch comes back when Andrew’s eyes leave Neil. He needs something to balance out. He slides a hand under the napkins on the table and Nicky sees him, of course.

“No,” Nicky hisses. “Andrew, we’re—”

Andrew gives him a long stare. Nicky shuts his mouth unhappily and scans the restaurant while Andrew upends the small packet.

Neil watches.

That shouldn’t get under his skin, but it does. Sometimes, if no one else says anything, Andrew feels like Neil isn’t real. He shouldn’t be. There should be no solution. No outside force. This should be Kevin and Andrew and Riko. There should be no other players in the game.

Except Neil is in it, and apparently, he’s been in it for a while.

Andrew doesn’t know how dangerous he is. He has an idea of how to find out, though.

* * *

Neil feels like the music is too loud. He follows the others all the same and watches Seth, who looks primed to blow.

“Come,” Andrew says. Neil peels away from the table they found and goes to the bar. The man that works there seems to know Andrew. He says something Neil can’t really hear over the din.

His hearing isn’t the best, after the gunshots that went off next to his right ear. It still rings, sometimes.

“And you?” That shout, Neil hears.

He looks the man in the eye and says, “No.”

“Soda,” the man says. He nods to himself and adds a glass to the tray.

Neil feels every muscle in his body tense. He hears familiar lessons in his ears— _don’t trust anything you don’t make yourself, there are a hundred ways to kill and only one outcome; death._

He knows Andrew wants to test him. He knows what Nathaniel would do. Nathaniel would fight back; he would pour the drink out, or pass it on to someone else. Maybe even switch it out. He would do something to prove his strength.

Neil needs the Foxes to trust him. He follows Andrew back to the table but holds his hand up behind his back, five fingers spread wide. He knows his people will be watching.

He looks down at the drink when he sits. He thinks he can see his mistakes in it.

Maybe it would be nice, to forget. Just once.

Neil downs the soda. It tastes too sweet. Something like panic or bile rises to his throat, but he pushes it down. He has to do this.

“So. What’s your play?” Andrew asks. Kevin is off somewhere, two drinks down and probably looking for a bottle. Nicky is dancing. Aaron is nearby, his expression of distaste for once outmatched by Seth.

“I am her because Kevin came to me for help.”

Andrew leans back in his seat. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. Why are you so determined to make me another enemy?”

“Why are you so determined to die?”

Andrew circles a finger around the rim of his cup. Neil feels the drugs and panic invade his throat, again. He wonders what would happen if he left, now. Andrew stares back at him impassively and then Neil sees someone out of the corner of his eye.

One of his people. One of his people, with two fingers to her temple. Her eyes across the dance floor, even while her laugh is directed toward the unknowing man at her side.

Neil lurches to his feet. _Seth_.

Except he stumbles, because the drugs are kicking in and it’s worse than he anticipated. Faster, too.

“What? You thought you were safe because you went to order?” Andrew asks. His gaze is one of easy distance.

Neil bites back his answer. He runs.

He stumbles, more like.

The dance floor is crowded, but he makes it across. He shoves past Nicky and finds Aaron standing by the bathroom door. He doesn’t even give Neil a second glance.

Neil throws himself into the bathroom. Seth is in the far stall, the door open, and there’s a man with a needle trying to stab him in the neck.

“Hey. Shithead,” Neil says. His words feel like mush in his mouth, but they somehow come out right. The attacker turns and Neil sighs. “I was talking to the other guy, but whatever.”

He has a general idea of the lag his body has. It’s a lot like when Lola stabbed him. Things move faster than him, so he has to time everything. He has to be precise.

He has to be careful, or he dies.

Neil waits for the man to charge. He moves aside just in time, and then the man stumbles out the door and toward the dance floor. Neil follows and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Whatever happens, he has to keep Seth out of it.

The man is frustrated. He still has the needle in his hand. Neil bends down—both to reach for the knife in his shoe and to avoid the next swing—and waits.  The man comes at him and Neil rises to clumsily knock the needle away. It rolls across the floor and is kicked under something.

Neil is getting slower. He catches a punch and his head snaps sideways. It jolts him a little—just a little—and he feels the world speed up for a moment. He palms the knife and swipes at the man. The attacker has knife now, too. Neil doesn’t know where it came from. All he knows is the pulse of dance floor lights, the thrum of his pounding headache, and the fuzziness on his tongue.

He also feels a hum of euphoria. A strange…liveness. It makes him want to laugh and cry. It feels like too much. Too real.

The man lunges and Neil is too late. The knife tears his side; his shirt rips and his only thought is, I really didn’t want to ruin Nicky’s gift.

He knows by muscle memory and feel that it’s not fatal or even crippling. It just hurts like hell, and probably needs stitches. Neil slides with the cut and brings his knife up.

They are three steps from the back door. Neil buries the knife just up through the man’s neck, right below his skull. The force of his push and their fall takes it further than he expected, and he feels the inevitable jerk and pulse of death beneath his fingers. The man goes down like a dead weight, falling over stairs and onto the ground outside. He hits his head on the concrete on the way out.

Neil sucks in a breath. The panic and determination of the moment passes, and he’s left with the lingering fear and weight of truth.

This is the second person he has killed.

He stumbles backward into the club. He wants to throw up and he ducks into the bathroom to empty his stomach. He comes out and doesn’t know where anyone is. His eyes scan the floor and he finds one of his contacts. She is covered in glitter and looks drunk, but he knows better. She laughs with a guy and moves his way. She drops her phone and bends down to pick it up. When she does, he leans toward her.

“Knock me out. Make sure they find me.”

A flash of trepidation. It’s there and gone. She doesn’t nod; she doesn’t speak. She just twists his arm and the next thing he sees is a counter coming close to his face.

He lets it come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy  
> So: the update schedule for this will probably be 3-day periods. I'm very tight on money and kind of crushing to get freelance jobs and things to help, and also I am going to have to move, so that's fun :))))))  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story, so far. I've had a time pushing this chapter out and stringing together the changes. As always, thank you for your comments and feel free to share! You can follow my tumblr under 'exactly13percent' if you'd like another way to submit requests/get updates.


	3. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel is there to protect the Foxes. Neil—well, Neil feels. It gets in the way.  
> After the mess at Eden's Twilight, the interview comes, and Nathaniel has to play his first move. Somewhere amidst the subtext and memories, one thing becomes clear: no one is allowed to touch the Foxes.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing._

Seth looks at him. He is pale—too pale for himself; devoid of color, washed-out, paper-thin. Neil feels his breath drain away like blood down a porcelain sink.

“I didn’t—” he tries to say, but his voice gets caught in something else. Neil chokes.

He chokes, and what comes out of his throat is a cascade of cigarettes. They are soggy and bitter when he spits them onto the ground. The paper scratches at his throat and it feels like razors. Neil heaves onto the ground, his hands pressed to packed dirt.

Seth watches. His veins pulse with something grey and poisonous. It makes his body vibrate, shake and twist. His eyes are wide and his pupils seem to eat up all the space.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing,_ Seth doesn’t say. His mouth is open but all that comes out is vomit.

Neil tries to back away. His hands are dirty and things scratch him—twigs, roots—until he sets his palm down in something warm. He stops and looks.

It’s blood. Thick blood, black at the edges, the metallic scent rising to choke him. He turns to push himself up and instead finds himself looking at bones, stark-white and cracked. A skull watches him with impassive caverns that seem to swallow the light. As he watches, it turns into a face.

Mary looks at him with brown eyes against bloodless skin. Her mouth is a black-red tear.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing_.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, anymore. He just struggles to get to his feet and run away. He bumps into a man on his way out—the man—and his head tilts and his neck gapes and he’s saying—

—they’re all saying—

— _you can kill someone by doing nothing._

* * *

Abby is unhappy. Still, Andrew only says it once and Kevin picks up the argument from there. Kevin isn’t happy about it, either, but he knows how important it is.

Andrew is just surprised none of the Butcher’s minions come to spirit their master away. He’s surprised Neil doesn’t just fade, like the fever dream that he is.

The wound, Abby later informs them, isn’t bad. It’s just a combination of pain, stress, blood loss, and drugs that did the work. She emphasizes the drugs.

Nicky doesn’t want to leave. He stubbornly sticks to Neil’s side.

“One fucking night,” Allison says, when she appears in the doorway. Andrew looks at her. He sees the way her hair is just a little out of place, and her designer leggings don’t quite match the shirt she’s wearing. He recognizes distress when he sees it, even on someone with a veneer like Allison.

Andrew turns away from her. “That’s all it takes.”

“Guess that’s it, then,” Allison says. Her lips press tight. She only looks in on Seth long enough to ensure he’s not dead, and then she turns to Neil.

That’s interesting.

“How is he?”

“He’ll be fine,” Nicky answers. He looks only half-surprised that she’s there. “Just a bad cut and—”

He falters. Stops himself. It doesn’t matter; Allison’s eyes narrow and her gaze turns to Andrew. There are probably a lot of things on her tongue. A lot that could get her in trouble. Andrew doesn’t mind her making a mistake. He’s not averse to reinforcing what he’s already told the other Foxes.

For some reason, Allison doesn’t say anything. It takes effort that he can even see. She presses her lips together before she turns to Nicky. “Tell me when he wakes up.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Allison leaves. Andrew considers whether he should stay and thinks it probably doesn’t matter. Nicky will tell him, first. Andrew turns to Kevin and says, “We’re going.”

Kevin doesn’t argue.

* * *

The unfortunate thing about being knocked out is that he can’t really control what happens the way he can when he sleeps.

When Neil ventures to sleep, he forces his mind empty. He shuts out dreams and looks only for silence. Nothingness. Sleep is the one place where he can just let go.

Being knocked out is not the same. Neil remembers, very vividly, what he dreamt of. He remembers and he’s not happy.

Who could be?

It’s the same thing that drives him. The words that made him watch Kevin long after Neil left the Moriyamas’ world. The words that made him step back and watch his father die. The words that made him say yes, when Kevin came and asked for Neil’s life.

For his death.

“You’re awake,” Nicky gasps. Neil sighs. His eyes are still closed.

“Where?”

“The, uh—the gym. Actually. Andrew made a big fuss—that is, he said one thing and then Kevin made a big fuss—”

“Nicky.”

“What?”

“Quiet.”

“Sorry,” Nicky says. His voice lowers a little. Neil tries to crack his eyes open.

Good, he thinks. His people did well. There’s no lingering threat of a concussion. He only feels the sore spot on his forehead. Light doesn’t hurt. Neil looks around the room. He vaguely recognizes the examination room from when Abby first checked him out. She’d insisted, for school records. He didn’t buy her excuse.

“It’s fine,” Neil says. He closes his eyes for a second. Blacks out the dreams and memories. When he opens them again, there will be nothing. He will be. “I’m fine.”

“I really don’t think you know what that means,” Nicky says. His laugh is weak, but he smiles. “You know, you saved Seth. I’m not sure what happened, but we did see scratch marks on his arm. Looked like they came from a needle.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“I know,” Nicky says. There’s a moment of confusion on his face, but then he realizes. “You did. Doesn’t matter if it was him, or—someone else. What matters is that you cared enough to do something. We know Seth has his issues; we all do—except Renee. She’s perfect.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Nicky sighs. “I’m sorry. About…”

“The drugs?” Neil finishes. He watches the peculiar embarrassment and discomfort take over Nicky’s sunny expression. It doesn’t sit well on him. He looks better when he smiles. Neil almost tells him, but instead, he says, “I knew.”

Nicky frowns a little. “You knew? Then why—”

“He had to trust me. I had to give.”

“You didn’t have to,” Nicky says, a little firmer. “He didn’t have the right to do that. And you—you could have died. When you fought, you could have died.”

He’s right. Not all the way, but enough to count. Neil looks at the ceiling. He wonders if he should, and then he stops wondering. Nathaniel is not Neil, and the other way around. It’s easier, for some reason, to open his mouth and speak. “I don’t think I’ve ever woken up with someone next to me.”

Nicky doesn’t say anything, even though his mouth opens to let words out. There’s a distant sorrow in his eyes that swirls and could be tears. Neil notices his hand is at the edge of the bed and wonders if Nicky was holding his hand the entire time. He’s not even sure how much time has passed. He thinks he should ask.

Instead, his fingers pull the sheets tight. He might want to reach out and hold Nicky’s hand. He doesn’t know.

That’s a lie. He does know. He knows, and he’s afraid of it. The feeling.

“Seth’s in the next room.”

Neil looks up to see Andrew in the doorway. He is pale, but there’s something like life in him. A light. Maybe a fire. He’s not the same as the dream—

—Neil stops thinking about that.

He’s not sure how long Andrew has been there. “I need to see him.”

“You should rest,” Nicky protests, but Neil swings his legs sideways. He feels his muscles twitch at the pull of stitches on his side. “You should take it easy, for a while—”

“We don’t have a while. Anyway, I need to see him.”

Neil walks to the next room without much fanfare. Andrew doesn’t even stop him; he just watches, with his impassive face.

No. Not exactly impassive. There are things behind Andrew’s shuttered eyes. Things Neil doesn’t have names for, sometimes. They move and shift like shadows and Neil sometimes can’t pin them down. He ends up letting them slip through his fingers like sand, but he sometimes comes up with the right things to do or say.

Something to move forward with.

Seth is asleep. The exam bench in the room is covered the same way Neil’s was—blankets smooth the surface and there’s a pillow under Seth’s head. He is still, but he looks peaceful. There’s an IV drip set up, noticeably out of place in the spartan accommodations. Neil wonders if Abby had to steal it from somewhere and decides she probably has a stash, even if she only reluctantly keeps it for her team’s sake.

Neil casts a glance over Seth, head to toe. There’s not much to note. “Has he woken up yet?”

“No,” Andrew says. Bored, but not really. Just uninterested in Seth. “Abby didn’t want to risk anything being in his system.”

“So, he’s just lazy.”

“Yeah.”

Nicky fidgets in the doorway. He looks at Andrew and there’s a trace of the uneasiness from before. Neil remembers his words—about the drugs. About how Andrew shouldn’t have done it. Neil wonders.

“Allison wanted to see you,” Nicky says. “She told me to let her know when you woke up.”

“I’m going to the dorm,” Neil says. “We have a game, soon.”

“But—” Nicky starts to protest. The game isn’t for days, he’s probably about to say.

Neil doesn’t listen and Andrew follows him out. Nicky gives up the argument and Neil sees Abby on his way out. She’s there for Seth. Neil pauses by her as Andrew and Nicky continue. “I’ll be back. Pass it on if he wakes up.”

“You should stay here, and rest,” Abby says, but her tone implies she knows he won’t.

He doesn’t.

* * *

“You didn’t have to, but you did. I’m grateful for that.”

Neil is a little disquieted by Allison’s words. She’s quieter than usual, and devoid of the sharpness he remembers well. Nathaniel would probably think of the ways to get her back to what she was before—precise, fueled, difficult on the court. Neil doesn’t.

“It’s what I’m here for. What I was asked to do.”

It’s not the right answer. He knows that and Allison does, too. She purses her lips a little and looks away. It takes her a moment to exhale and then she says, “I can’t do—I can’t. Anymore. I can’t spend my time trying to fix him. If he’s not going to change, it’s not my problem. If I never got through to him, it’s not on me.”

“You’re right,” Neil says simply.

He’s seen this. In the early days, he travelled the country to raze his father’s hovels. He went top down, from high-ranking members of the family to the street runners. There were plenty of disagreeable addicts. Some of them had lives—precious ones, desires, goals, things to protect—and some of them had nothing but the drugs in their veins.

Nathaniel has seen it all. He has never had to dirty his hands; his name and word of mouth did enough.

The sight of a child, in a tailored white suit with scars crisscrossing his skin, did it.

So, Neil has never had to kill anyone—other than the first to challenge him, and now, the man at the club. It is a disquieting feeling. He has worked so hard to change the Wesninski name. To change the Butcher to a nightmare; a fairy tale told to intimidate. A boogeyman.

The Moriyamas are the fire that scorches the earth They are proud, and they hide from no one.

But fire makes shadow—even if it is unseen.

* * *

Andrew is curious. He watches Neil sit, seemingly attentive, with one leg on the table in front of him and the other foot planted on the ground. He sits in his chair backward. It’s hideous.

At the moment, the only person Seth has spoken to is Neil. Andrew wonders what was said. He wonders that Seth hangs close to Neil, now. He wonders about many things, including how Neil manages to maneuver himself into such absurd poses when no one is looking.

“So. I don’t think I have to stress how important it is to have a clean game,” Wymack says. His arms are crossed and his fingers drum against his skin. “We need everything we can get for the next few games. That, and a good not to start on for the interview.”

Andrew knows Neil wasn’t quite paying attention from the way his head snaps up and his blue eyes narrow. They’re strangely luminous. Andrew doesn’t like that he spends so much time trying to decode them.

“Interview?”

“Tomorrow,” Wymack says. “I know it won’t leave much time for sleep—”

“I was not told about an interview,” Neil says. His voice is tight and there’s a low hum of danger in his words. Andrew leans forward. The hand dangling from Neil’s knee curls dangerously, like a snake, over an invisible blade.

“It’s for the Foxes,” Kevin says. He tilts his chin like it doesn’t matter and God, is he stupid. Andrew almost says so right then.

He didn’t know, either. He would be very displeased, but Neil is doing the work for him—and it’s much more fun to watch than to do the instigating, himself.

He learns more this way, too.

“I don’t think I asked,” Neil says, placid. The way he says shit with innocent blue eyes and his chin in one hand makes Andrew want to slap him. Just to make sure he’s real.

Kevin’s expression morphs into one of annoyance. He cuts a hand savagely through the air to punctuate his sentence. “It’s done. It doesn’t matter—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Neil says casually. There it is again—not a snake, Andrew thinks. Something else. A wolf, maybe. Hungry in a freezing winter. Looking for an opportunity, knowing it might die. “’Doesn’t matter’, he says. As if Riko is going to just turn the TV on and watch with a bowl of popcorn.”

Kevin pales. The blood drains from his face. Now, the other Foxes perk up. Wymack looks between Kevin and Neil. His mouth thins into a line.

“What do you mean? You think he’s going to show up?” Wymack asks.

“I know he will.”

“How?”

“Common sense,” Neil says drily. He shrugs and disentangles himself in one fluid motion, escaping his odd pose with less work than Andrew expected. “And a good word from a little bird that keeps company with much bigger Ravens.”

“Contact? Who?” Kevin latches onto the piece of information like a lifeline.

Neil’s glance is cool. “No.”

“But we could—”

“No,” Neil repeats, steely. “I am not compromising one of mine. Especially not now. We’ve barely started. Or are you going to quite so soon?”

Silence. Andrew leans over the arm of the sofa he sits on and waits for someone to speak. His impatience mounts with each passing second, and then Dan finally opens her mouth.

“Well? What are we going to do? We can’t cancel.”

“No,” Neil agrees. “Send me. It’ll be my lovely debut. I’d love to see Riko try and be civil while I sit between him and Kevin.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Kevin says, pale. “He has to show deference. If you goad him, something else could happen. He could—”

“He failed once already.” Neil shrugs. “And that time, I was drugged. No—he won’t risk something so soon. If he does, he is both suicidal and stupid. Both of which work for us.”

“Work for you, you mean,” Seth mutters. It’s devoid of his previous venom. That is a new thing. He’s taken a sort of odd silence from Neil—a stilted, half-detached way of life.

Andrew can’t pinpoint it as depression, exactly. He’s not sure what it is, but he knows it falls somewhere under the categories of ‘bad’ and ‘unhelpful’. He wonders if Neil recognizes it as a flaw, or if he thinks he can weaponize it the way he does his speed.

“Fine. Listen,” Wymack says, irritated, “we can talk about this later. Right now, I want all of you to focus on the game. That’s what matters, for tonight.”

It probably isn’t the best thing to tell people like Kevin and Neil, whose one-track minds are very not efficient when it comes to anything but Exy and crime, respectively.

Not that Andrew points that out. He’s having far too much fun watching things unfold.

* * *

“Oh, shit,” Nicky breathes.

Andrew can’t help but agree.

Practice is one thing. At practice, Neil gives it his all—but here, in the middle of the game, he plays like his life is on the line.

Andrew suspects it was, once. It might still be.

Neil darts past the other team’s striker and throws his racquet with all the force his frame can muster. It turns out to be quite a bit, because Andrew tracks the ball as it whips past someone’s head, nearly misses it by inches, and slams home.

It happens quickly, and then Neil slides around on his heel, shoes squeaking against the floor. Andrew watches him turn, the racquet in his hand pressed into the floor to keep his center of gravity certain. The stupid orange bandanna holding Neil’s messy red mop out of the way flutters at the ends a little bit and Neil’s face is flushed pink-red and—

—and, Andrew is very aware that he should stop looking.

He can’t look away, though. Not when Neil turns and not when Neil ducks under an arm meant to stop him. Neil throws himself into someone that’s pursuing Kevin, frees him up, and then Kevin makes the second score in barely as many minutes. It’s fast. Neil is fast.

Andrew wonders what made someone like Neil so good at running, when he’s supposed to have been a silent king in his castle for the past seven years.

When the game ends, Andrew still has no idea what the answer is.

* * *

“What’s your plan?” Wymack asks.

Neil adjusts the buttons on the cuffs of his jumpsuit. They have a peculiar texture to them.

Probably because they’re bone.

Not human bone, of course. The Wesninskis have class. The bone comes from a wolf. Once upon a time, in the forests of Poland, the Wesninskis used to hunt for their bones. For their honor.

These days, like much else, the Wesninskis discarded the unnecessary tradition for the basics.

“Piss him off.”

Wymack gives him a long look. “That’s not a plan. That’s what you do.”

Neil smiles. It’s the Butcher’s smile, with perfectly bone-white teeth, because Nathaniel once found that the most terrifying thing in the world to some people could be as simple as perfection where it shouldn’t matter.

“Stop. All right,” Wymack says, the heels of his palms dug into his eyes. “Just—try not to make things worse than they already are. Or, do, I guess. But not at the cost of what we have.”

Neil shrugs. He emerges from the locker room then, where the rest of the Foxes wait.

He feels a peculiar flutter in his chest when he goes to them. There are only so many ways people have ever reacted to the Butcher. His immaculate white suit is mostly an English cut, tailored and perfect. There are minor differences, of course, because the Wesninskis are particular about mobility when they need to do dirty work in their suits.

Then again, the mark of a Wesninski is their ability to do the work without blooding the suit.

Allison whistles when she sees Neil. Her gaze approvingly roves the suit. “How far did you have to go for that one?”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Neil says. “The same man makes the uniforms for all the families. He’s…respected.”

That’s an understatement. The man is the only person who will ever be safe from the shitstorm that is organized crime.

Andrew stares. Neil feels a little uncertain about him, still. In any other situation, Nathaniel would want Andrew on his side before anything else. Andrew is one of those types, he is starting to realize, that does not back down or withdraw from his word. He is like Riko, in some ways, as much as Neil isn’t ecstatic to use the comparison. It is true, though. Much like Riko, Andrew takes hold and refuses to let go. He digs in so much Neil wonders no one has run from the force of his grip.

He would be surprised that Kevin hasn’t, but then, Kevin doesn’t know what’s good for him. Most of the time.

“Let’s go,” Neil says. “Time’s wasting. Time I could be using to piss Riko off.”

He smiles and Seth snorts. “We’ll have our phones ready.”

“You are aware this will be taped, right?” Aaron says.

Seth flips him the finger.

* * *

“This is a bad idea,” Kevin says.

“Yeah,” Neil says. “It’s also our only idea.”

“Your only idea.”

“I should leave—”

“No,” Kevin says, sudden, and Neil feels a little guilty. He sighs and tries to remind himself that Kevin…

…well.

Neil had to steel himself against violence, once, the way Kevin did. Then, he had to become it. Kevin has never run. He has always stood where he was and done what he could.

Even his escape wasn’t entirely his own, even if he doesn’t know that.

Meanwhile, Neil ran at every opportunity. He ran in his house, when Nathan came for him. He ran with Mary—which didn’t last long. He ran from the reach of his father, took refuge in lessons and blood—and then he ran right into the one place he didn’t want to go. He ran into the Butcher.

Even their survival instincts are at odds. Neil wonders why he chose to help Kevin.

But he knows. He’s always known.

“Listen to me,” Nathaniel says. He slides into what he needs to be easily—dangerous, determined, discreet. He becomes who he has to, because Kevin went to that person for help. Andrew decided to allow that person.

The Foxes want Nathaniel to save them. That’s who he has to be. Nathaniel, the Butcher, who saves them all.

Nathaniel waits until Kevin’s eyes are on him. “He will not touch you. He will not do anything to you. I will be there, and he will see just how far he has to fall. He will step willingly to the cliff, and we will watch as he walks right off and to his death.”

All of this, Nathaniel says in a tone that is matter-of-fact. He has no patience for crippling fear or worry. He only has a goal.

Someone comes to escort them to the set a few minutes later. Things pass in a blur—the usual niceties, With Nathaniel’s smiles and charm taking the forefront for him. Kevin barely manages to keep his head; his usual shiny persona is dulled just a little by what he knows is coming.

Of course, when Riko walks onto the stage, Nathaniel has the peculiar pleasure of watching the half-second fear in his eyes.

Nathaniel smiles. He shows his teeth like the wolf he is meant to be and runs a finger down the lapel of his suit jacket. To anyone else, it would seem like a casual move. Riko knows better. He knows the simple gesture is a warning. Nathaniel will not tolerate touch.

Riko is reduced to distant handshakes. Nathaniel watches him; ensures that he does not have a chance to pull Kevin in. When they are done, he sits between the two stars and settles into the tiny smile he reserves for those the Butcher deems childish.

It pays off when Riko says Kevin will come back to the Ravens.

Nathaniel chuckles. Just a little—soft enough to be thoughtless, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You disagree?” the anchor asks. She leans over her desk a little. Her eyes betray a desire for spectacle.

It’s a good thing Nathaniel came.

“Of course,” Nathaniel says. He leans his cheek delicately on his palm and crosses his legs. The level of mobility he has in his suit isn’t typical; neither Kevin nor Riko could do the same without compromising the elegant lines of their jackets and pants. Nathaniel is not them. “But then, I am not surprised. He has not changed much, in seven years.”

“Seven years? Have you known Riko that long? From where?”

“A breath, dear,” Nathaniel chides. He smiles wide and the audience laughs. They are pulled into his act, even if they don’t want to be. “Seven. I have known him a little longer, but seven years ago, he was just the same. Practice with him was certainly interesting.”

A gasp from the audience. This stranger trained with Riko? Nathaniel waits patiently. Riko’s mouth should be full of blood, as much as he’s biting his tongue. It doesn’t last long.

“I hardly think one game counts as practice. It was your father that was important, in any case.”

“I’m hurt,” Nathaniel says softly. “You know my father is dead.”

Silence. Nathaniel thinks he is playing the audience well. How sympathetic they must be, he thinks. This poor, scarred child with his sharp wit. This stranger that came onto the scene to support Kevin through his most difficult season yet. This newcomer, who has jokingly tried to reminisce, only to be shot down by Riko.

The seed is planted. Not everyone will believe it, but he isn’t done. He has a lot more to do before he makes Riko look like the bastard he is.

“But I suppose I shouldn’t expect much more,” Nathaniel continues. He shakes his head sorrowfully, as if he is more lost in thought than giving an interview. “I had my duties and you…well. I appreciate that your family sent their condolences. It was honorable of them.”

He very noticeably leaves Riko out of the compliment. He also knows that Riko must hear the subtext. The reminder that Riko has no honor and no duty, because he is a second son. That no one expects much of him. That he is honestly a piece of shit.

Well, the last part is more his tone than his words.

Riko’s words are delicate and icy, but Nathaniel knows that front well enough. It’s a wall he throws up in an effort to save his own skin. The less friendly and emotional he appears, the less there is to give evidence of his fuckery.

“You think you can arrive and help the team beat the Ravens?” Riko asks. “We are the best. Even with the way he is now, Kevin should be able to prove that to you.”

“Oh, of course,” Neil says evenly. Then he grins, and gives the anchor a wink. Plays into his act. “But all birds need a very specific wind to fly. Foxes don’t rely on anything.”

_Asshole._

They’ve probably lost the audience at this point, but it doesn’t matter. Nathaniel lets the anchor wrap up the interview. The show ends and Nathaniel gestures for Kevin to go first.

Two feet from the door, Riko stops them.

“This is a disgrace,” Riko spits. He is furious and his words are turned on Kevin.

Nathaniel lazily steps closer. He does it just to watch the instinctual step back Riko takes. That’s the training, there—the drilled-home reminders of respect and deference. It makes Riko furious and he steps closer just to make a point. A stupid one.

“Are you done?” Nathaniel asks. “I assume your…handler awaits you.”

“Imposter,” Riko spits. “You are no king. Your empire dissolved long ago.”

“One who chases after two hares will not catch even one,” Nathaniel responds, in even Japanese. He sees the rage flicker in Riko’s eyes like a fire. “You are so certain you are a hawk, when you were born a Raven. Tell me, do those pretty words and feathers do much for you? Or do they still see you as a party trick to show their guests?”

Riko snarls. He is about to move, but then footsteps interrupt them. Nathaniel knows their weight as they echo down the hall. He turns his back on Riko, more for the effect than anything else. He would know if Riko moved.

“Took long enough,” Nathaniel says. Andrew barely looks at him.

“Oh, look,” Andrew says. He feigns surprise when his eyes find Riko. “You’re here to talk? I would love that. You know I would.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. Andrew would probably pull a knife on Riko, and then they would all be in trouble.

“We are done,” Nathaniel says shortly. He gestures and catches the tail end of Andrew’s dangerous look. Andrew does not do orders. Nathaniel knows it is necessary. He looks back at Riko and says, “Do send my regards to the Master. I have not forgotten his grace and honor, even if you have stained it.”

They both know that they are not the only ones who heard. Somewhere in the shadows is the man assigned to Riko. He has heard it too, and he will ensure the message is clear.

Riko has spoken against the Butcher. It will be one of the last things he does.

* * *

“He’s going to come for you,” Andrew says.

Neil lies looking up at the sky. The roof is rough on his back, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the openness too much.

Once, he had envied the Ravens. He had wanted to fly, away from his father and his life. He’d imagined what it would be like to let them take him. How his life would have been better.

He knows better, now. Neil curls onto his side and watches Andrew pull his legs to his chest, a cigarette in hand.

“It was just a matter of time,” Neil says.

“Before this?”

“Always.”

Neil closes his eyes and breathes in the smoke. Andrew doesn’t speak. They exist in the silence, Neil thinks. It is good to have this quiet, just for a little. As much as Neil likes to fill up the space with words—to prove that he is real—he likes this silence, too. It allows him to be, without worrying what comes next. Without remembering that there are people he controls. That rely on him.

“Let’s play a game,” Neil says. His voice is low and he sounds sleepy, but he’s not. “Give and give.”

“That’s not the phrase. Did you forget half your English, when you learned Japanese?”

“It is. No, I didn’t. My English would be gone. I know three other languages, too.”

Andrew pauses. His mouth twists in dissatisfaction, but he doesn’t argue. He knows the game, now.

Neil isn’t sure why he suggested it. He distantly remembers something about drowning—if he dies, he takes someone down with him. He doesn’t want to. Or, he does, but he means it to be Riko.

He should not be letting himself spill over. Especially not onto Andrew.

But it’s so easy. So easy, for some reason, and that scares Neil as much as it draws him in.

“Your father is dead,” Andrew says. “Your mother?”

“Dead,” Neil answers. The word is like sawdust and cinnamon in his throat; it threatens to choke him. “Why are you and Aaron at odds?”

Andrew pauses. Neil can see the decision he weighs and knows it’s not about Neil. It’s about whatever promise he made, because of course, it was a promise. “He asked for something and he doesn’t believe me.”

So vague, Neil doesn’t say. He has a general idea of some things—he’s seen both Andrew and Aaron’s files, when Wymack was distracted. Neil could probably get more from his contacts, if he wanted.

For some reason, he doesn’t want to. He knows it’s more painful this way—more roundabout and not guaranteed—but it feels wrong, to dig. Like exhuming a grave.

“You don’t smoke. Why the cigarette?” Andrew asks.

Neil’s fingers twitch just enough that a little ember falls on his hand. He watches it with interest for a moment. It is nothing, compared to the rest. The scars on his skin. Andrew follows his gaze and his eyes narrow.

Andrew’s hand goes to put out his cigarette, but Neil stops him. Not with a touch—he knows better—but with a palm before Andrew’s green-brown eyes.

“They remind me of before,” Neil says slowly. “So, they remind me of now.”

Andrew still looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t stop smoking.

The questions stop, but they sit in silence, and it’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.

* * *

He is out with the Foxes at a nearby mall in Columbia, when it happens.

Weak, Neil thinks, when the guy comes at him. He’s almost disappointed that Riko’s first bet was a mugger in a dark parking lot.

It’s nearly nine at night; the sky is dark and there’s barely anyone around. Neil only went back to the car to shove some of Allison’s bags in the trunk, so they could eat somewhere without worrying about them. He needed the break, anyway. The mall is crowded and he gets itchy when he has to watch his back from too many sides.

The man that comes at Neil has a knife. It’s difficult to fight against a knife, of course—especially when Neil has no time to arm himself. He only has time to avoid the blade and figure out what he needs to do.

Maybe it isn’t just a run-of-the-mill mugger, though, because the man lunges and Neil has to use every bit of his training to not be stabbed in the shoulder.

And then someone else appears.

Neil realizes a little late that he’s not going to be killed. This is not about killing, yet. It is about the pain.

The new man takes something from his pocket—a lighter, maybe—and then the searing pain at Neil’s wrist confirms his guess. He is pinned in place from behind, arms holding him in place. Neil is not strong enough to break the grip, so he runs through a few reactions in his mind.

He tries to, but the fire and the smell of burning skin is not doing much to help.

“Neil!”

Nicky. His voice is close. Neil has a moment of true panic—not for himself, but for Nicky, who will not receive the same courtesy. Neil can almost hear Riko saying, kill any other. He can hear it and he can’t—

—he will not let anything happen to Nicky. Not to one of the few people that hasn’t been terrified of him.

Neil brings a knee up to the man before him. He hears other voices along with Nicky but doesn’t stop to identify them. He focuses on the fight and then the pain multiplies on his hand. Neil screams—more rage than pain, now—and rips his hand away. He swings himself around the man and uses momentum to bring them to the ground. The landing hurts, but nowhere near as much as he’s felt before.

The struggle is messy. Neil’s veins pound with the urge to survive; he is not the Butcher now, he is the child that almost made it out nine years ago. Neil throws his weight and the man’s head toward the tire in front of his face. The man grunts in pain and Neil slams his elbow into the man’s head, just to be sure.

The other person attacks him before the Foxes appear. Neil feels the sting of the knife as it grazes his right cheek and he growls in anger. He smacks the blade away, grabs it where it falls, backhands it, and shoves it to the man’s neck.

It takes him a second to control the heaving of his chest. “Send my condolences to Riko,” Neil spits. “And remind him that the blade is my brother. It will never betray me, even if his would.”

Neil throws the blade at the ground and waits for the man to drag his companion away. He has won this round.

He has won, but his own hand smells terrible and there is fire on his skin and he suddenly—

—is back there, where the curtains smell like smoke and there is a stain in the basement. He remembers a similar stain, in Baltimore. It used to be hidden under carpet, but he could see it when he closed his eyes. When—

“Neil!” Nicky gasps. He rounds the corner and is in Neil’s face in a second. “Oh, God—okay. Where are you hurt? What did—”

Nicky reaches out and Neil—

—Neil doesn’t mean to, but instinct kicks in and he ducks out of reach. He smacks the back of his head on the parked car behind him and the sound that leaves his throat is a half-wheeze. He feels dizzy. He sinks to the ground and hears murmurs above him.

“Jesus. Your hand,” Kevin says. He sounds sick. Neil blinks and realizes his hand is shaking, where it rests against his chest.

Ah. Neil pushes down the shake and blinks. He removes himself just a little and says, calm, “I’ll live. Did you get us a table?”

“Fucking hell,” Seth growls. He shoves his way forward and Neil watches him drop to the ground. “Give it.”

Neil clenches his hand reflexively and hisses in pain at the result. Seth glares. “It’ll be fine,” Neil repeats.

“Yeah, we know. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t clean the fucking thing.”

Neil realizes that Andrew is watching. He gazes at the display and there is something odd in his expression. He saw something, Neil thinks. Something he recognized.

“Let’s go,” Seth says shortly. “You can wash it inside and then eat. One-track moron.”

So he says, but Seth stays glued to his side the rest of the night and scans the area around them like he expects the guys to come back.

For some reason, it makes Neil feel…safe.

* * *

There is a sense of permanence that shouldn’t be there.

He should not want to smile when Nicky bounces up and down in excitement. He should not admire the way Dan handles her team, or the way Matt goes out of his way to invite Neil to watch movies. He should not appreciate Aaron’s silence, or the way Allison casually sits with him in the cafeteria at lunch.

There are so many things that are unique to each of them. It makes him want to know more and it reminds him he has no right to know more. He should not be trusted with these things—these little secrets. The intimacies of their lives.

Neil is supposed to save them. He can’t do that if all he can think about is how it would kill Matt and Dan to lose one another, or how Renee has worked so hard and deserves her escape.

He can’t be Nathaniel, when Neil wants so desperately to have just one more moment with them.

So, he pushes Neil into a corner for the night and goes to Aaron. They have a quiet agreement about them—a you-stay-away-from-me, I-stay-away-from-you. It serves them well.

But Nathaniel doesn’t have much time, and he knows Riko is about to move. He has been told.

A quiet word passed in the hallway, on his way to Spanish, and Nathaniel wakes up from his dream.

“Tell me,” Nathaniel says.

“No.”

“Tell me,” Nathaniel repeats. He steps closer—not to intimidate, but to emphasize.

Aaron’s eyes narrow. “That’s not part of the deal. I have to go. Katelyn’s waiting.”

Nathaniel feels something slide into place. Just a hint, but he has an idea.

When Nicky comes to him later that night, Nathaniel feels the weight of certainty settle in his chest. He knows what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wellllll I had another plan for this and it rapidly derailed  
> that being said, this definitely has more than two more chapter left, probably. i hope you stick around?????
> 
> also: if you weren't aware, i do post all updates to my author tumblr, too! url/username is 'exactly13percent'. i also post really short sneak peeks of dialogue and shit over there, if you're into that ;D i do use the tumblr for all my works, not just andreil, so if you're ever curious about what else i might be working on, you can see it there and decide whether you want to read.
> 
> that being said, thank you! i never say it enough, but your comments and readership are huge motivators. i could never write as much or as often as i do without your enthusiasm. so, thanks :)


	4. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has a web of influence. When a string vibrates, he knows something is coming.  
> Unfortunately, Neil doesn't want to twist things. He wants to do his best and save the Foxes, even if it means he holds back from his true strength. What starts with a plan turns into a disaster, and then Neil's choice leaves a mess for the Butcher to clean up.  
> But maybe, he thinks, it was worth it.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing._

Neil wakes at one in the morning because of that gem. He doesn’t even have two hours of sleep in his body, but he rolls out of bed and picks his way out of the bedroom. Seth and Matt are asleep and Neil doesn’t expect them to hear.

He goes to the roof because he needs the oxygen. He wants to light a cigarette, but when his feet find the edge, he is also tempted to walk off.

Sometimes, he wonders what would happen. Thinks about his feet crossing over the air because he does not exist; he is nothing and no one, and he would walk across nothing just like that. Neil thinks about it and stares into the drop before him, the sidewalk a distant strip of greyish-brown. If he fell, would his empire fall apart?

“What are you doing,” Andrew says. It doesn’t come out as a question. It comes out tense.

Neil turns his head to look. Andrew stands a few feet away from the door, a hand curled around a box of cigarettes. He looks tired—or at least, as tired as Andrew ever looks. His hair is a little out of place. Neil wonders what woke him up, or if he was ever asleep.

“Looking,” Neil says. He can’t quite shove back the need to be cutting. He is a Wesninski, after all. He is a knife.

Andrew is unimpressed. Neil expected nothing less.

The stars blink at them. Andrew walks closer, but he keeps a healthy distance from the edge. Neil wonders if it’s out of self-preservation, or if he is trying to tell Neil he’s not interested in saving him.

“What’s your real name?”

Neil blinks, surprised. “Nathaniel,” he says. It tastes…different, now. He wonders why. “But—”

He stops that part of his answer. He only needs to answer what he was asked. He shouldn’t answer more. The more he gives, the more pain the Foxes will take, in the end.

But maybe it’s all right. Andrew won’t care, will he?

“You don’t like it,” Andrew says.

“I don’t dislike it.”

“But, what?”

“My father was Nathan,” Neil says. He keeps his words and tone mild, but that doesn’t help much.

He thinks of a burning car and smoke on curtains. Thinks of a damp basement and a dull axe. Once upon a time, Neil was afraid. Now—

—now, he’s just…this.

Neil curls his fingers slowly, just to ensure he can still move. Old habit. “When did you and Aaron promise not to let anyone outside, in?”

It’s a wild guess. Neil doesn’t know much about Aaron and Andrew, but he knows little things. He knows that Aaron loves Katelyn but is violently secretive about her. He knows Andrew doesn’t let people touch Aaron, or even jokingly push him around. Andrew watches Aaron the way he watches Kevin, sometimes.

There’s not much that will make someone agree to have no one else in their life. Neil could probably count reasons on both of his hands. He is most familiar with love, fear, and need. He thinks out of all of them, need is probably what fits.

Then again, Andrew doesn’t need anything. So maybe for him, it’s something closer to love. Or whatever it is that he approximates.

Andrew looks directly at Neil. His eyes have always been odd. Earth-brown and green, grounded. They are sharp despite their soft color. “High school. What did he tell you?”

“Nothing,” Neil answers.

“What did you do? Dig?” Andrew asks. His eyes narrow. This is not something he talks about. “A true dog.”

Dog, wolf. Neil feels a shiver run down his spine. A memory.

Nathan says _you are not a dog, do not beg._ He rests the axe against Neil’s ankles and the weight is heavy. Neil can’t get out of the ropes. He can’t—

—do this, now.

“I did not,” Neil says. His voice is too even. “I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

He is hitting the bottom of the pan. Neil is scraping at the edges; scratching the surface and leaving ragged marks. He feels empty. Too much given from nothing. He is desperate to find something to pass on and he claws at the void inside of him with bloody fingernails.

“I don’t take,” Neil says. He almost chokes on the confession. He feels dizzy. His ears ring. Andrew doesn’t notice, or maybe Neil is that good at hiding. Maybe he’s that good at disappearing in plain sight.

Maybe when he does go, none of them will notice. Maybe he’s been worried all this time for nothing.

Andrew pauses. He looks like he might have been about to say something, but it rests on his tongue where he swirls it like a mint.

Neil is rapidly shutting down. He drops his cigarette without entirely meaning to and steps on it as he leaves. The last truth he leaves Andrew with is a quiet, “Night.”

* * *

“I don’t—he won’t say yes. He’ll never say yes,” Nicky says.

There is something about Nicky that Neil loves. It hurts a little to know, but Neil cares about him. Nicky is very different from what he should be. He’s offhandedly mentioned his family, before—his parents and the way they treated him. He should not be the way he is, all warmth and smiles, but he is.

Nicky is a good person and Neil doesn’t know how he can be, after everything. Still.

“Why do you want to go? I thought you hated them, or they…”

Neil can’t finish. He is too…something. He can’t say it to Nicky’s face. Nicky just wrings his hands and looks like he wants to be living a different life. One with fewer threads to tangle and choke him.

Nicky bites his lip. “I just—this could be something. I mean, it probably isn’t, but…what kind of person would I be if I didn’t try?”

A sane one, Neil thinks. A justified one.

But he doesn’t know Nicky. He only knows what he sees and what he’s been told. Neil doesn’t know before and he doesn’t know what really happened. The only thing he is certain of is that he would stand by Nicky in a firefight, and he is ready to do the next closest thing.

“You want to go. What about Aaron?”

“They love him. That’s not a problem.”

Avoiding the question. Neil looks down at his hands. Considers. “You don’t want to go alone? Or with just me?”

“I can’t. They’ll only say yes if I bring Aaron and Andrew,” Nicky says. His voice cracks a little. Neil wants to stop whatever makes it unsteady and he can’t figure out why. “They’ll listen to you, if you tell them they have to go.”

“I won’t force them,” Neil warns. Nicky shakes his head.

“No—no, I don’t want to. I just…I can’t go if they don’t, and I know you want to go if I do. Andrew might come, but I have to be sure. I need to know if this will happen.”

“Wait here.”

Neil leaves Nicky in the room and walks down the hallway. He pauses before the right door and leans against the frame.

Why did he care?

He was there for a job. His existence was just a buffer between the Moriyamas and Kevin. Neil has no use for the Foxes and no reason to involve himself in their lives. Their problems are their own and he can’t shoulder them when his future is—

—well. When he has no future.

The Butcher, he thinks. That is the reason. The Butcher would not allow any of his assets or territory to be compromised. No one would threaten him. Only one person ever had, and they were dead. He had seen to it personally.

So.

“Think of it as the Butcher,” Neil murmurs to himself. He raises his hand and knocks on the door. “They can’t take what’s yours.”

Kevin opens the door. His expression is skeptical, but there is a trace of worry underneath it. He is always waiting for bad news. Neil passes him and enters the bedroom. He pauses and gives it a once-over. There are beanbag chairs; Andrew is sprawled in one. Aaron sits at a desk, legs folded neatly and a textbook in hand.

“I need to talk to you,” Neil says.

Andrew barely raises an eyebrow. One of his legs is kicked over a lump in his beanbag and the other is stretched out. He has an arm behind his head and the other flung over his stomach. “Oh?”

Neil barely hears the question mark. It’s the slightest inflection. Still, Neil waits. Kevin looks between them with something like suspicion and then Andrew finally assembles himself and moves from his chair to the bedroom, one finger raised in silent direction.

When the door closes, Andrew leans against one of the bunk beds and stares dispassionately at Neil. His expression seems flat, but there is a question in the air.

“Nicky says his parents called. They want him over for Thanksgiving, but only if you and Aaron go.”

“No.”

That was quick, Neil thinks. He leans back against the door and crosses his legs at the ankles. Distantly, he imagines Kevin trying to open the door. He wonders what would happen if Neil just let himself fall. Would Kevin catch him? Or would he watch Neil fall and then panic?

He would probably panic.

Neil mills his thoughts around and decides. “I know what’s coming. I’ve been told.”

“Have you?” Andrew leans forward just a little. They’re still far apart, but even an inch feels intimate. “I don’t think you have ever mentioned how you get these little reports. Or when.”

“I haven’t. Are you asking?”

The game. A game Neil has come to enjoy more than he really should. Andrew hums quietly and crosses his arms. His eyes lazily take Neil in and for some reason, he seems irritated by what he finds.

“No,” Andrew finally says. “Why do you need this to happen? You don’t even know what you are asking for.”

“I have an idea,” Neil says. He gives that inch with dread in his bones.

How far does he go? What can he say without breaking this thing that he has? He’s not even sure what the thing is.

Neil doesn’t know how to say that he understands. He can’t even say how or why he understands. All he knows is that the distance in Andrew’s expression sometimes is familiar, because Neil has seen it in the mirror.

He wants to explain that he has to help the Foxes—not just because of his deal with Kevin, but because something in him can’t look away. It’s almost like watching someone walk toward the edge of a roof and not holding a hand out to pull them back. Neil has seen so many things fall apart—has made so many things fall apart—and he doesn’t want to just leave a pile of dust, when he goes. He’d like to leave something real behind. Even if Neil isn’t real, himself.

He can’t touch the world, but the Foxes could. Maybe if he helps them, it’ll be like he touched something, himself. Like he made a difference.

Like he mattered. Even if he only mattered to himself.

“The more you try to drive a knife through the problem, the more organs you’re going to hit along the way,” Andrew says. He doesn’t sound angry or sad. He doesn’t sound anything. “Go.”

Neil leaves, but he still hears Andrew’s warning in his head when he goes to find Nicky.

Andrew is right. Neil just wonders if Andrew realizes Neil is driving the knife into himself.

* * *

Dietrich is like a middle point between Bella and Neil. He is quieter than Bella, but he has some of her optimism and faith.

He’s the one that the Foxes haven’t noticed.

At twenty-three, Dietrich has been part of the criminal underworld a little longer than Neil. He’s also experienced a colder side of it—because he is from Germany, where someone once shot a rocket launcher at a rival gang’s escaping car.

Sometimes, Neil wished he lived in Germany. It seems like things could be more straightforward, there.

“We have a lead,” Dietrich says. His voice is softly accented. Eight years in the States has only done so much to rid him of his home country. “Though I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“I don’t have to.”

They are in the same classroom. It’s between classes, so there are students in the process of leaving and others coming in. It’s a good place for an exchange that goes unnoticed.

Dietrich slides a notebook into his backpack. “There is a doctor. He has been moved to a nearby facility.”

Neil sits on the desk next to Dietrich. Anyone who watched would assume Neil was waiting for the seat, and that he was particular about his spot in class.

“And?” Neil prompts. He can hear the second half of the information waiting to be voiced.

“And, one of the names you gave has moved.”

“To the house,” Neil finishes. He can feel a knot of dread tangling in his chest. He has a good idea of what’s about to happen. “The bastard wants to take one of us out for the round.”

“He will,” Dietrich warns. He zips his pencil case a little too violently. The sound echoes in Neil’s ears, even above the din of the classroom. “I think you know that.”

“Perhaps. But I can minimize the damage, and maybe learn a few things, myself.”

“You want an extraction?” Dietrich asks. He slides his backpack on.

When he turns around, Neil is unsettled again by Dietrich’s face. He has mismatched eyes—one is green-brown and the other is blue. Dietrich is probably what most people would consider handsome, but the imbalance of his gaze and his pale blond hair makes him unapproachable.

The aura of preparedness about him doesn’t help much, either.

“No,” Neil muses. He imagines it wouldn’t go well and Riko would know. He has to be careful about what he does. “I want something better than what Riko has, on the doctor.”

“Simple. I will inform you,” Dietrich says. He hefts his backpack and moves to leave, but Neil stops him with a brief gesture.

“There won’t be time, and the others might know,” Neil says. He pauses for effect—to make Dietrich understand how much he is trusted, and that the consequences for failure or betrayal are death. Not that he would. Neil knows him.

“I’ll go wherever you ask.”

“Find something. Ensure that the doctor will not touch Andrew. We will take him, after the stay is over.”

Dietrich murmurs an affirmation in German—some phrase he told Neil years ago, when he was more friend than subordinate. When Neil was trapped.

Neil watches his informant leaves and thinks of the game he plays with Riko. How little Neil actually knows and how it’s like Battleship; how Neil throws his bombs blindly and hopes to hit where it hurts. He uses his secrets like buoys, to see how much they displace and gauge what will push Riko where Neil wants him to go.

It would be nice to just drop a very big bomb, but then Neil would get wet—and he really doesn’t want to ruin his white suit.

* * *

The car ride is absolute hell. Neil is very near to wanting to claw his eyes out and his ears off. Nicky hadn’t even spoken the entire way; his nerves were obvious and even his usual smile was out of place.

When they drive up to the house, Neil is glad just to be done with the wait. Comforting, he can’t do. Action, he can.

Neil doesn’t listen to the unpleasantries that are exchanged. He keeps his expression schooled and tunes everyone out. This is not his place to speak and it’s not what he’s there for.

Still, trying not to listen doesn’t do much when Neil watches the way Nicky and Aaron react to everything. Neil knows without having to ask that things are bad. The way Nicky’s parents talk about him changing and the way Aaron stiffens at being praised speak volumes.

Neil just turns a dinner knife over in his hand absentmindedly. If he were sitting at the table as the Butcher, he wouldn’t let any of this happen. He would silence the trash coming out of the mouths of the two strangers and he would make sure they never tried to give voice to their refuse again.

For them, though, Neil has to be Neil.

His phone vibrates ten minutes into dinner. Neil knows the signal and he pauses in the middle of stabbing green beans. He has a choice, here.

He could do the obvious and just expose the man. That would require some work, though, and Neil doesn’t trust that Drake would just come. He does his work in the dark, where his monstrosity is shrouded. Neil could misdirect him with Aaron, but something tells him that would make Andrew furious and Drake would know.

Neil gives up on a plan. It’s not like ever has one, anyway. That’s the thing about him—he might control an empire of secrets and shadows, but Neil is not a planner. He is the one that cuts the neck; not the one that flushes out the prey.

“Excuse me,” Neil says.

“Bathroom’s to the left, down the hall. Third door,” Nicky says. He sounds half-miserable and entirely exhausted.

Neil lets his hand brush Nicky’s arm as he leaves. He still doesn’t know how to comfort, but he tries his best.

The staircase is white. It’s almost blinding. Neil climbs it easily and glances around the landing. There are a few doors and one of them is cracked open a little. Neil pushes it with his toe, hands in his pockets, and looks in.

He shouldn’t be surprised at Drake’s lack of finesse. The man stands by the window and there’s a bottle by the bed. Neil eyes it with distaste and then looks back at Drake.

This is the monster.

Well, two can play at that game.

Nathaniel leans back against the doorway and assesses Drake coolly. “You’re smaller than I imagined.”

Drake’s smile spreads across his face like an ink stain. “Who are you? An appetizer?”

“Only if you regularly eat razors,” Nathaniel says mildly. “I am going to give you a choice, here. You’re lucky. I usually take what I want.”

“Oh?”

“You can either go downstairs and never come back again, or you can make your move and deal with what happens next.”

“Leave?” Drake laughs. He takes a step forward and Nathaniel measures it mentally. “I guess he didn’t tell you how this works. It works like this: you shut up—or yell; it doesn’t matter, no one will hear—and I am the one that takes.”

A lot of things click into place at once. This—

—this is worse.

Nathaniel feels the beginning of something sick brew in the pit of his stomach. He takes a step toward the door—not out of fear, but out of realization. Necessity. He has to get to Andrew. Someone. Anyone.

Drake moves quicker and Nathaniel darts into the hall. He immediately hits a body.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asks. His eyes narrow.

Neil blinks. He opens his mouth and then he feels a hand on the back of his neck. Neil sees Andrew’s eyes widen just a little and then there’s a flash of emotion like lighting. It cracks over his face and in the air and Neil just needs to get away—just a little.

“There you are,” Drake says. Neil is shoved aside and he stumbles just a little.

“No,” Neil says. He pushes all the venom he has into the one word, even as he struggles to get back the footing he had before. Butcher, he thinks, be the Butcher. But things are happening so quickly. “That’s not one of your choices.”

Drake laughs. He moves and Neil tries to push away from the wall. He just needs to get between Andrew and Drake, he thinks—just between them. Just enough.

“He is not going anywhere with you,” Neil says. “You’re going to have to fight, and you’re going to lose.”

“I don’t need him to move,” Drake says. He reaches out and Neil knows what’s coming; he can see the push in the air, like energy being directed at Andrew.

There isn’t much logic left in his head, or self-preservation. Neil knows he is going to die and he knows he only has one duty in life. He has to protect the Foxes. He has to—

—so, he steps in the way of Drake’s hand and takes the shove.

Neil tumbles backward. He feels the stairs beneath his feet and then only the emptiness of air. He sees Andrew’s face but tries not to linger on it.

The last thing Neil remembers to do is open his mouth and scream.

Everything goes in a blur. There is pain and his body hitting the stairs. There’s a scuffle and a slam upstairs. Neil is vaguely aware that he’s lying on the floor at the base of the stairs. He looks toward the door to the backyard and wants to move, but he needs a minute.

He doesn’t need to move to scream.

“ _Aaron!_ ”

Neil doesn’t know if he’s ever screamed this much in his life. He does not scream. He has never done it for himself.

For some reason, it makes sense that he is doing it for Andrew.

Aaron comes sprinting through the door with Nicky right behind. They both pale when they see Neil. For some reason, Neil feels like his vision is blurred. He tries to blink and thinks there’s something in his eyes.

“Go. Upstairs,” Neil manages. He forces himself upright; Nicky says something, but Neil doesn’t understand the words in his mouth. “Go!”

Aaron moves and Neil follows. The door slams again and then they are in the bedroom, where Drake has a broken bottle and the smell of alcohol permeates the room. Neil stumbles halfway toward the bed, where Andrew is sprawled, his hair wet and clothes in disarray.

Drake raises his arm and Aaron shouts something. Neil realizes he had a knife in his hand, but it’s on the floor—

—and then it’s not, because Aaron has it in his hand as he runs at Drake.

It’s a good hit. Neil watches Aaron’s hands open in shock as he backs away from Drake. From the knife stuck in Drake’s chest. It will bleed out, Neil knows. Not long.

There are screams from the doorway. Neil looks at Nicky’s parents and wants very much to shove them into the dirt where they belong.

Instead, he stands. “You have two choices,” he says evenly. The Butcher is done with this mess. “You can either call the police and deal with how that plays out, or you can leave. Now. Don’t look back and don’t come back for five days. When you do come back, you will not contact Nicky, or Aaron, or Andrew.”

“We have to—” Aaron starts to say. He is in shock. Neil watches Andrew pull himself over to Aaron and tunes them out, just for a moment.

Neil looks at the couple in the doorway. “Choose. And remember, I will be watching, either way.”

They run down the stairs and Neil feels a twinge of disgust. He picks his phone out of his pocket and dials a number without looking.

“That was a mess,” Dietrich says. His voice is tight.

“I know. We have five days.”

“More than enough.”

“I want them to pay for this,” Neil murmurs. “But I’m not sure, yet. For now, arrange things for Drake. Make it clear. Very clear.”

“We will,” Dietrich says, and then he hangs up.

For some reason, the end of the conversation ends something else, too. It feels like strings have been cut. Neil sags against the wall and blinks through a haze of pain. He realizes the mess at his eyes is blood, from when he fell down the stairs. He feels tired.

“Neil,” Aaron says. He has canned his emotion, at least for a short while. “Keep your eyes open. Neil.”

“We need to go,” Neil says. He thinks he says it, at least. His brain feels muddy. “This will be taken care of. Go to Abby’s.”

“It’s far,” Nicky says. He sounds like he was just crying. Maybe he was. “You need help, now.”

“I’ll make it,” Neil says. “I’ve done it before.”

He doesn’t say it doesn’t matter if he dies, anyway. That each second of breath is stolen. Neil has a feeling it wouldn’t help.

He barely registers being taken to the car. Neil doesn’t recognize time or space. Even sounds are muffled and warped, like he’s listening from underwater. A few times, he feels someone’s hand crack against his cheek and he blinks to life.

Abby is outside when they pull up. Wymack is there, too.

“Fuck,” Wymack growls. “Andrew—”

“Not me,” Andrew says. His voice is hard. “That one.”

“Jesus,” Abby gasps. “What did—”

“I fell down some stairs,” Neil says. He giggles a little at that—how funny it is, to repeat something that happened exactly ten years ago—and Nicky looks horrified at the laugh.

“He needs a hospital,” Abby says. “He could have a brain injury.”

“Alcohol,” Neil says. He reigns himself in, just a little. “What do you have?”

“You shouldn’t—”

“Now,” Neil says, his voice lower. “I am not going to negotiate.”

They hover around a stalemate for a long moment and then Neil is taken inside. Abby shoves a bottle at him—whiskey—and Neil downs half of it in one go. The familiar burn brings back a rush of memory— _that’s what it’s for, Nathaniel, and don’t ever fucking touch it otherwise_ —and then Neil holds up a finger, walks five steps to the bathroom, and throws up into the toilet.

There’s a shuffle and noise while Neil flushes. He needs to pull himself up and clean up. Clear up.

He wishes he were back—

—not at home, but at the place where he felt right. In that moment, where someone cared. Where he mattered.

Neil closes his eyes for a moment and remembers hands applying a bandage. Worried eyes. Quiet words.

It was selfish of him to want. It’s still selfish.

“Neil,” Kevin says. His voice is all shock and dismay. He lingers at the doorway and Neil wonders who called him.

“Sink,” Neil says. Kevin hesitates, but he pulls Neil up with experience. He has done things like this before.

Neil almost cracks the mirror when he looks in it. There are blue eyes and red hair that aren’t entirely his. The scars and dry blood from his fall. He leans close to look at his pupils and doesn’t see anything wrong. Kevin passes him a towel and Neil cleans himself off, fingers exploring for cuts and bruises. The half-inch gash above his left eyebrow is the cause of all the blood and he brushes the edges.

“I need stitches.”

“Abby can do it.”

Kevin supports Neil the entire way to the living room. Nicky has tear tracks on his face and he can barely look at Neil.

“Explain,” Wymack says tightly. “You’re supposed to be helping—”

“I did,” Neil says evenly. He ignores Wymack and finds Andrew. “You don’t—”

“I didn’t fall down a flight of stairs,” Andrew says. His voice is hard and cold. It’s the most emotion Neil has had out of him. He hates that it’s…this.

Neil is quiet. He waits for Abby to start the stitches and considers where to start.

“Riko wanted to push. He wanted Andrew to snap and he wanted to break the team down by one person, after he failed with Seth. I only knew a few days ago that people were moving. I didn’t know who or why.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Wymack says. There is barely-contained fury in his voice. “This could have been avoided—”

“No.”

“We could have—”

“No,” Neil repeats. He is tired and he can’t keep it up. “He would have been sent wherever Andrew was. Even here. It was just convenient for us to be there. It would have been easier to make a scene and easier to involve the police.”

“Speaking of,” Abby says, her voice tight, “What about the police? You just left.”

“I know.”

There’s an uneasy silence. They all know what Neil is capable of—what he’s done, before—but it has never been so obvious. It has never seemed so real.

Before, Neil was just another Andrew. Someone who could fight, but someone who was willing to take care of the entire team. Now—

—now, they know. Now, they can see that Neil is not Andrew. He is something different.

He is the real monster.

* * *

Andrew has to get sober. He goes with Aaron and Nicky, Bee and Abby and Wymack. Kevin.

Neil would go. He would, but he still feels raw at the edges with the knowledge of what he’s done. It never changes.

He didn’t directly kill Drake, but it was his knife and his playing field. Neil could have killed Drake the moment he saw him, but instead, he let Aaron do it. He let someone take that trauma and Neil hates himself for it.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing,_ it whispers in his ear. It’s right.

“How’s your head?” Matt asks. He lingers in the doorway and Neil looks up from where he lies on the couch. He isn’t allowed to go to class for three days.

Neil shrugs. “I’m not dead yet.”

It’s the tired truth. Matt isn’t pleased by it. His hand tightens around the strap of his backpack and he worries at his lip. He has another class and he’ll be late, if he stays to look after Neil.

“Go,” Neil finally says. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been fine,” Matt says quietly. He is too right.

Matt leaves and Neil drinks tea. He drinks and lets his eyes glaze over while he holds his Spanish notebook in his lap. He is so focused on not focusing that when a blanket is draped over his shoulders, he immediately shifts for a fight.

“You know you didn’t have to do it,” Seth says. Any of it, he doesn’t say. He is studiously not looking at Neil.

Neil looks at the blanket. It’s not one of the cheap bed dressings that most places seemed to sell just for college students. It’s purple with guitars on it and it’s oddly fuzzy. It feels soft. Neil rubs the edge between his fingers. It makes him feel warmer, and he didn’t realize he was cold.

“I did.”

“Why?” Seth asks. His eyes finally slide over to Neil.

“It makes me—it’s what I do,” Neil amends. He can’t say it. He can’t say that saving the Foxes makes him less of nothing; that it makes him feel like he means something, for a little while.

Neil has never been anyone or anything. He does not matter, and that is why he is the best shadow of them all. The best Butcher. He is a face that has never existed in the first place.

He doesn’t even have a birth certificate.

Not a real one.

Seth might know what Neil means, anyway. He is quiet where he sits next to Neil, but he sits close enough that their legs touch. Neil takes it for what it is and feels the tightness in his chest subside just a little.

He wakes later to find his head on Seth’s leg. It’s not the worst way he’s woken up.

* * *

_Why do you care about them so much?_

Nathaniel does not need anyone else. Other people are informants and contacts. They are not people you should care about. You can never protect them all. They protect themselves. Nathaniel is the silent king; a shadow that never fades, because it is cast somewhere the sun never shines. He will always be, even if no one sees and even if no one cares.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing._

Neil wants to be someone. He wants to play Exy and he wants to know more. He wants to know why Nicky can trust and be open, after what his parents did to him. He wants to know what makes Erik special. Neil wants to know why Aaron loves Katelyn so much. What Kevin will pick up as a hobby, when everything is over and he can breathe. Neil wants to know what Dan and Matt’s wedding will be like, and when Renee and Allison will walk together and hold hands. He wants to know whether Seth will ever forgive himself.

Life is something that Neil holds onto with both hands, even when he’s thrown by it. Neil wants and he cares and he’s not sure why. Maybe it has to do with the way Seth lets Neil lean on him, or the way Nicky gives his hugs freely. Maybe it’s the way Dan and Matt walk him to class or the way Renee is quietly accepting. The way Allison offers to cover up his scars when they take pictures.

It could be the way Neil misses Andrew fiercely, when he goes to the roof and finds it empty. The way he looks across the land like he can find where Andrew is. Maybe it’s the way he looks at the quad on campus and is immediately reminded of the earthy color of Andrew’s eyes, or the way he blew smoke toward Neil.

The Foxes could be a home, Neil thinks. He wants them to be.

_You are nothing,_ it says. _You have no place anywhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get the question (bc ya'll are smart), we are operating under the assumption that Riko was kept away from Neil at the banquet that happened in the book.
> 
> That being said, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. It was definitely one of the more difficult ones to write. I find myself struggling with the Drake situation in most AUs, since I think it's important that Aaron killed him and important that everyone else figured out what happened to Andrew. Hopefully, I did it justice.
> 
> Also, the Neil/Nathaniel-Butcher dynamic is starting to pick up. I definitely feel that the Butcher is something that Neil would have forced himself to become because there was no other choice, and I like the idea that Neil and the Butcher clash because of their motives and desires. Nathaniel has trained himself to be the Butcher that does not get attached and does his work for a bigger purpose, whereas Neil wants connections with other people.
> 
> Anyway, I'm getting out of hand. Read, comment, and enjoy!


	5. Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel makes a misstep. He is not perfect—but the chances that unfold are. As long as he survives.  
> If he makes it, and if he figures out what he feels, Neil could be more. But time is running out, and he doesn't even have that under control, anymore.

Neil receives an invitation, the third day after Andrew leaves.

Well. Sort of.

He’s supposed to meet Kevin for late practice. The moment Neil sets foot in the locker room, he knows something is wrong. There is a heaviness in the air and a sense of hurried silence—as if someone was just moving and hid when he entered.

Neil slides a hand over the metal of his locker. He pauses and wonders if he should be worried. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to. He opens the locker door and sees, nestled atop his gear, a pink lotus. It is delicate and pristine among the vibrant orange.

There is an envelope below the flower. Neil slides it out and reads it. An invitation to meet with the Ravens, for option of the next year and season. An honor.

To anyone else, it would seem like the best of the best recognizing their worth and inviting them to an informal audition. For Neil, he takes the contents and the meaning very differently.

They call him Nathaniel.

This is a directive for the Butcher. One that Neil expected, but still not one he is ready for. Not that he would ever be.

Neil reaches for the phone in his pocket and dials. Dietrich answers. “It’s late.”

“Any sighting on campus? The stadium?”

“…no,” Dietrich says. He sounds more awake. “Nothing direct. It would be easy to check for runners.”

“I doubt that’s how it happened,” Neil murmurs. Strange. He would have expected it to be personally delivered, or at least obviously placed by someone high in the ranks. This is a missive from one king to another.

“You should ask your bird,” Dietrich says.

“No.”

“He would know. You can contact him,” Dietrich says. He’s not deterred by the refusal. He only wants to get the rest of his assessment out. “It’ll give you a chance to set up contingencies.”

“I have what I need in place,” Neil says. “I’m going.”

* * *

He knows it’s not right. He knows, but he can’t not ask.

Neil lingers in the doorway of the bedroom. Set is on his bed, arms held above his face and phone in hand. He’s watching something, earbuds in.

Turn around, Neil tells himself. Find another way.

There is no other way.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing._

Neil forces his feet to move. He walks to Seth’s bed and watches the man pause whatever is on his phone before he stows it. Seth swings his legs off the bed and sits up, as much as the bunk will allow his tall frame.

Seth is not like Andrew. He can’t fight the way Andrew does, or the way Renee does. He’s not as precise as Kevin, either. But Seth is still alive. He has survived, and that’s the point.

“I need,” Neil says. He stops. That word is wrong in his mouth. The Butcher doesn’t ask for things. He makes them happen. He opens his mouth and pieces on the board move. “Help. A promise.”

“What?”

Neil blinks. “Just like that?”

Seth stares back at him. “Just like that.”

Whatever conversation he needs to have is immediately derailed. Neil doesn’t understand—can’t—and he needs to. He needs to know, because this close to death and this far from Baltimore, he’s not sure what he is. If he even exists.

“Why?” Neil asks. It sounds more frustrated and lost than he wants it to.

There’s a flicker in Seth’s eyes. Whatever came out of Neil’s mouth and maybe whatever his face betrayed, it reached Seth. Neil wonders if Seth has been seeing him from the beginning. He wants to take Seth by the shoulders and ask him what he sees.

Is it something real? Is it even a person?

Seth shrugs one shoulder. “Favor for a favor,” he says. It’s a lie. They both know it. Quieter, he asks, “Do you want to know?”

Neil wants to. He wants to, but he knows how much it will hurt. Not just him, but Seth. When Neil is—

—gone.

“That’s what I needed to know,” Neil says. Another lie. Or maybe half of the truth. He does need to know that much, just to ensure that everything will work out. “I need you to watch Kevin. I won’t be here, for winter.”

Seth draws in a little. He is very aware, Neil thinks, of the nature of the request. After all, the Butcher came for Kevin. Neil knows how much Seth hated Kevin.

So, why? The question floats around Seth’s dark eyes.

“Christmas dinner with your spies?” Seth asks.

“Something like that.”

* * *

It’s easy to slip away. Some of the others are too busy with preparations to consider him, and that’s just how Neil needs it to be. He can’t handle their strange kindness; the way they try to make him matter. Neil isn’t supposed to be real. Not really.

It’s hard to pretend that, when everyone is so bent on acting like he’s someone worth being a Fox.

Nathaniel wears his suit. He flattens it neatly over his chest when he steps off the plane. A car waits for him and he is taken to the one place he has tried to avoid, since he left years ago. There are cars in the lot and the lights are on. Nathaniel goes to the door and finds Riko.

If he was suspicious that it was a trap before, Nathaniel knows with certainty, now.

“What a waste,” Nathaniel says. His lip curls—wolf’s snarl—and he eyes Riko, unimpressed.

Riko smiles like he thinks he has won. There is ice in his gaze. “You are the one that came. I suppose your new team does not care, to send you from their sight.”

“I suppose your family does not care, to take Tetsuji and leave you to fester.”

The flicker of rage that flares from Riko is expected. The slam of a racquet against Nathaniel’s cheek is not so expected. The crack echoes and Nathaniel works his jaw as if it is no problem. It mostly isn’t.

“You were supposed to be mine,” Riko says, low. There is a simmer of rage in his eyes.

“You’re telling me you were flirting? No wonder you’re single. That one-on-one match was deplorable.”

Neil slips from the cracks. He sneaks out when the Butcher is supposed to be talking. He definitely does not care as much about what he should or shouldn’t say.

Of course, the rage in Riko’s eyes is beyond fire. It’s nuclear. He hits Neil, this time in the chest. “You were never supposed to be a king,” Riko hisses. “You were never supposed to become the Butcher.”

It’s the first Neil has heard of it. The information twists in his chest. It simmers like a pot about to boil and he feels acid rise to his throat.

He thinks back. Remembers the visits and his father’s anger. The way he was incensed that Nathaniel learned Japanese, or that Nathaniel was so polite with the Moriyamas.

He thinks about his mother, and the way she died when she tried to take Nathaniel away.

Nathan had plans for his son. He had plans to raise him as his own, and not as some tool to be used against him, later. Nathan wanted a legacy. He did not care about the favor of the Moriyamas—and Nathaniel had walked right up to them with pretty words and calculated deference.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing,_ it whispers in his ear. Neil remembers the burn of smoke and the angry sound of Nathan as he refused death.

It is too much.

Neil is dragged further into the court before he can stop it. He blinks and knows that nothing will go well. His chest is tight. He—

—he is not Neil. He is Nathaniel. He is the Butcher, and he will not allow Riko to get away with this.

* * *

“Where is Neil?”

Seth stares back at Kevin. He seems to be considering something. Maybe he’s thinking about whether he should punch Kevin in the face. He’s tried to enough times. Now, Andrew isn’t around to stop it. Kevin wonders if Seth will try.

“You didn’t even notice.”

“What?”

There’s a wave of anger and frustration that washes over Seth’s face. He is angry, but Kevin can see some struggle in his expression. Like he doesn’t want to be angry.

That’s…odd.

Riko let himself be angry. His anger was right. That was what he believed.

Seth has always been angry. He never seemed to consider his anger; he just let it be. Kevin assumed that Seth was like Riko, in that way. That he just let it happen because he thought it was right. That he was right.

Now, Kevin is not so sure.

“He’s gone. Off somewhere. I’m pretty sure it’s not a nice place.”

“What did he say?” Kevin asks. The knot of dread in his gut warns him that he already knows. That his question is just an excuse to delay the inevitable.

You know, a little voice whispers. You know, and you would not have stopped him. This is what you wanted.

He is not sure why that doesn’t feel true.

“To watch you,” Seth says. “Even though you’ll probably be safe.”

The only way he would be safe is if Riko were dead or distracted. Kevin has the sick feeling he knows which is right.

* * *

Nathaniel is dumped at Jean’s feet only two hours after he hits the court. Nathaniel held back more than he wanted to admit. He knew what was at stake; his life, the lives of the Foxes, and the trick he wanted to play.

Jean looks at Nathaniel, pale and eyes wide. His mouth is half-open in horror.

“ _Chardonneret_ ,” Nathaniel acknowledges. “How are you, my sweet, handsome friend?”

“That’s not—”

“It was in bad taste. Sorry,” Nathaniel apologizes. He tries to stand properly, but there’s a stab in his side and he doesn’t think he should do more.

Jean finally ushers him in with patient hands. Nathaniel likes those hands. He has always liked Jean.

“You know, my team thinks I have a bad attitude.” Nathaniel smiles. “I learned that from you, I think.”

The hands pause over a bruise. Jean withdraws, and his lips press together—not in anger, but in containment. He looks angry.

“You were not supposed to come here. Never. That’s why I—”

“I know,” Neil says, soft. He spills out again. Maybe it’s the Foxes. Maybe it’s just that he’s out of practice with being the Butcher. Maybe he’s just tired. “I’m sorry.”

He means it. If there was one person that was supposed to stay out, it was Neil.

He failed at that. Again.

Jean finds a cut and suddenly, something cold and burning is smoothed over it. Neil looks at his arm, but then he avoids the blood and looks at Jean, instead.

“I follow the rules,” Jean says.

“Best way to stay alive,” Neil agrees. He doesn’t say, it’s my fault. He doesn’t have to.

Jean smiles a little. It looks sardonic. “You say you learned the bad attitude from me, but I seem to remember that you were the one that had the police in Marseilles after you.”

“I was eight. It was a candy bar.”

This—

—this, feels nice.

Neil isn’t sure why, of all things, he suddenly remembers his stitched-together childhood with fondness. He just does, while Jean patches him up like neither of them ever left. Like two summers were two years, and they know each other back to front.

Maybe they do. Maybe knowing the old wounds and reasons is why Neil can let himself close his eyes while Jean works.

“How is Kevin?”

“Still a pain in the ass.”

Jean laughs quietly. “I did my best.”

Neil opens his eyes. His hand finds Jean’s wrist and his fingers curl around it. He is not rough. Jean stills and Neil looks into his eyes. “You have done well,” Neil insists, firm. “No one had any right to ask this of you.”

“Maybe not,” Jean says. He shrugs, a little hopeless. His smile is as lost as he is. “But I would do the same, again.”

“Then you are just as foolish as Kevin,” Neil says. He doesn’t say the rest of the words in his mouth, but he doesn’t have to.

Jean smiles like he heard them in the silence.

* * *

“Motherfucker,” Neil groans.

His eyes feel sticky. Closed. He struggles to open them and finds himself in a nearly-empty plane.

It hurts like hell to take his backpack out from under the chair in front of him. He can barely bend over without feeling like his body is on fire and about to rip in half.

Time doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t remember what day it is, and it could be one o’clock, but Neil has never had a good gauge for time of day. He leaves the plane and every step is a monumental task. By the time he reaches the benches outside of the airport, he feels dizzy and uneven.

The next choice is who to call.

He knows he should call Dietrich. Neil should call someone—anyone—that is his. He should plan and unravel and figure out how he is going to take Riko down so hard, the dust from the collapse will be coughed out of the Moriyamas’ lungs for years after.

Instead, Neil dials Wymack.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I’d rather not pay for a cab from the airport.”

There is a stretch of silence. Neil almost hangs up. “Fine,” Wymack says shortly. “Don’t. Move.”

Neil would say he can’t, but instead, he keeps his mouth shut and hangs up.

Each breath feels sharp. He pulls his hood over his head and runs a finger over the worn gray fabric. It’s as close to comforting as anything could really feel. Neil breathes as much as he dares, in and out, and then Wymack is suddenly before him. Neil looks up at him and wonders how the hell he got there so fast.

“Were you nearby?”

“What?” Wymack’s anger hesitates. It is crowded out by something uneasy and concerned. “It took me twenty minutes to get here. Are you—”

“Let’s go,” Neil says. He stands because he can’t talk about it and doesn’t want to think about how he can’t untangle his days. His minutes. Everything is warped like a pan left in the oven too long.

They drive to the dorms and Wymack’s hands drum on his steering wheel. His jaw is set when he pulls up. “I don’t think you should stay here alone.”

“I’m fine.”

Wymack sighs. “You need to get checked out.”

“I’ve been taken care of. Leave it.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He just leaves. Neil goes up to his room, his limbs heavy as lead, and sinks onto his bed. He closes his eyes and thinks maybe if he tries hard enough, when he opens them, time will reset itself.

* * *

Nicky looks crushed.

“What—why—”

Neil uneasily shifts his weight between his feet. He only just showered a few hours ago, after two days of being locked in his room. He didn’t even let Kevin and Seth in. Neil feels a little guilty about that, but he wanted to be closer to functional when he emerged.

His body doesn’t realize how important it is for him to seem fine. Neil still has pain in his side and the bruises and cuts aren’t going away.

“How was Christmas?” Neil asks. It sounds as awkward as he feels.

Nicky presses his lips together like he’s containing a small flood. He probably is. His hands flex and then he turns to dig a bag out of the car. “I have something for you. Erik helped me pick it. He said to tell you hi.”

“Hi,” Neil murmurs softly. He doesn’t think anyone hears him. Nicky passes the bag and Neil looks inside. It’s a jacket. It looks soft, and instead of gray or black or white, it’s a soft green. It’s…nice.

“It’s cold. You don’t really have anything.”

“Thanks. I don’t…I’ve never really…”

“It’s okay,” Nicky says, but the sorrow in his eyes betrays his smile. “I don’t expect anything.”

Neil nods. He moves to try the jacket on for expectant gazes, but as soon as he lifts his arm too high, the pain stabs him. Nicky immediately pales, and his hands shoot out.

“Oh, shit—no, look—don’t,” Nicky stammers. “It’s fine. Don’t, uh. Don’t try to move.”

“Sorry,” Neil mutters. He is more frustrated by his body’s lack of coordination than the fact that he can’t wear the jacket.

“No,” Nicky says. “It’s not your fault. Okay?”

Neil nods. If he opened his mouth, he would lie.

* * *

“We’re picking Andrew up. They’re letting him out, today.”

“Oh, really.”

Neil already knew. Of course, he knew. That had been a fun conversation. Dietrich had taken one look at the injuries and gone silent until Neil prompted him to talk.

Sometimes, Neil thinks his closest people are not as obedient as they should probably be. He’s not sure why he likes that.

“You, uh…you’re supposed to come with us?” Nicky asks, uncertain.

“Of course,” Neil says. He rolls off his bed. When they make it downstairs, Aaron and Kevin wait at the car. Neil blinks in the sunlight. He forgot it was day.

Aaron gives him a once-over. His tone is displeased when he asks, “Are those the same bandages?”

“No.”

“Really? Because they look the same.”

“I’ve changed them,” Neil says, annoyed. Not angry, yet. He and Aaron have enough healthy antagonism to keep them both on their toes. It’s good practice.

“Is that why they look like you did them in the dark?” Aaron asks. “Can’t stand to look in the mirror?”

Neil keeps his mouth firmly shut. He could say something about Aaron’s last biology exam and Katelyn, but he decides now is not the time to start a war. They’ll be in the car together for a while.

The trip is just as bad as the one to Nicky’s parents’. It’s almost worse. They all know what they are going toward, but no one knows what to expect. Not quite. Neil has a few predictions, but he keeps them to himself. He follows the others into the facility and finds his contact the way he always does—with a lucky accident and a shared gesture.

Good, he thinks. It’s nice to know that he can still be the Butcher when he looks like someone used him as a punching bag.

Neil wanders, while they wait. His eyes can’t find anything to focus on. Nicky and Aaron talk but Neil doesn’t hear them. He thinks about the exits he saw on the way in. The stairs. The alcoves that were perfect for placing sentries or shooters.

He thinks about chain-link fences and blood. Then, he doesn’t think.

Maybe he should hear the door open. It’s not good that he doesn’t. What he does hear is the change in Nicky’s voice.

Neil turns and finds—

—well. He finds something he guessed he would, but that doesn’t make it better. Nothing could make the flat shade over Andrew’s eyes better.

He almost wants to reach out. Neil wants to shift Andrew just a little—to look past that even filter and see the ocean beneath. The color of his eyes betrays nothing beneath, but Neil knows it’s there. He can feel it like the stitches in his skin. It scratches, almost audibly.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says. Neil looks at him and realizes Andrew has turned to walk out. Neil shrugs.

Andrew drives back. Neil still smells medicine and cleaner. He thinks about the cleaner in the basement and the spot on the concrete. The stain that has never left. He feels the chill of Baltimore in his bones.

Did he ever leave? Is he still there?

He could be a dream. A nightmare. Shadow fragments, pretending to be an entire person.

Neil feels like he might throw up, again. He stares at the tiny cracks in the leather on the car door. He follows a path through some of them and forces himself back into his body. The pain helps, just a little. Reminds him that he is solid, at least. For now.

They are at the dorms before Neil realizes it. He grinds his teeth together. Time got away from him again. He wants to kill it.

That—

—that is a violent thought. It is not his. It is the Butcher. Neil slides in and out like a broken stereoscope, stuck between two vastly different images. The earth beneath his feet is steady, but he rattles in his body and can’t see out of his eyes the right way. He is out of alignment.

Neil’s feet hit the ground and then Andrew is before him. He looks at the bandages. The others linger by the car, uncertain.

“You don’t seem to be very good at your job,” Andrew says.

Neil doesn’t laugh. Nathaniel might have, but he is shoved into a closet—even if that closet is threatening to burst. “I am. That’s why none of it is on him.”

Andrew’s eyes slide to Kevin for a second, but then they return to Neil. He seems to consider something, and then his hand reaches out.

Neil holds himself very still.

The others try not to intrude, but Neil can hear the way Nicky inhales sharply. He knows they wonder about his injuries. At least now, Neil thinks, he is healed enough to soften the blow. Injury, he doesn’t care about. If he is functional enough to fight, he will.

Andrew pulls up a square of gauze under Neil’s eye and then—

—then, something shifts.

Andrew’s eyes are on Neil’s cheek and Neil knows. He just _knows_.

Neil lunges away from the car. He doesn’t pay attention to the fire that lances through his side when he runs. He takes the stairs two at a time; he falls into it like he slid into the Ravens’ practice schedule. Neil races to his shared room; Matt looks up and Seth startles on the couch. Neil bursts into the bathroom.

There, at the sink, he sees his face.

He looks like shit. His hair is an overgrown mess of red-brown. His blue eyes glint with something that is probably exhaustion, like the smudges under them suggest. There are scratches and bruises on his face; a patch of gauze rests on the right side of his jaw, where Andrew hadn’t reached, yet. There is—

— _there is a number._

He sees it on his face, right on the cheekbone. Left side. Just a little number, just black ink, just—

—he punches the mirror.

The sound of it shattering is probably there, but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t feel the blood he sees dripping into the sink. He just reaches for a shard and his hand flies up to his face; his eyes are locked on the mirror, on the number, on that proprietary mark—

— _you can kill someone by doing nothing, you were supposed to be mine, you are not a dog, do not beg_ —

—Nathan looks back at Nathaniel, that smile on his face that means blood, and he leans close.

_You are nothing. She died for nothing. You will never be anything but mine._

Neil has the glass an inch from his skin when there are hands on his arms. They pull him back and someone says something he doesn’t hear or understand. He is far away—too far away from his body—and he can’t come back. If he does, he might spill out. He might never be able to gather himself up again.

There is a hand on his neck. Neil immediately lets go—falls under the weight. He knows that weight and he feels it in his soul, but what should be terror is something else. The warmth is different. The way the hand fits, not crushing but cradling, is different.

Neil sucks in a breath. He didn’t realize he wasn’t breathing. He blinks and sees Seth in front of him, mouth set into a tense line. There’s a scratch on his arm. Neil’s hand falters when he reaches out and he barely registers the clatter of glass on the tiles as he drops the jagged piece in his hand.

“I did that.” Neil presses a finger to the angry line. It is thin and there are two tiny beads of blood along its length.

Seth’s hand closes on Neil’s wrist and turns his hand over. The blood that pools betrays the jagged gash on his palm. Seth is quiet for a beat and then he says, “Just like that.”

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

It shouldn’t, but Neil lets Seth and Matt take him to the kitchen sink while Nicky calls Abby. They wash his hand and don’t say anything else.

Later, Neil realizes that none of them had their hand on his neck. It was Andrew.

* * *

“It’s late.”

“It’s early,” Neil murmurs. His eyes are closed. The sky is filled with stars and it is three in the morning.

Andrew hasn’t seen him close his eyes for twenty-four hours.

He expected Neil to be gone when he came back. He expected death. Andrew expected to wake up and realize that no, Neil wasn’t real; how could he be? He’s not a person that could ever exist. There could never be someone that looked at Andrew and didn’t see murder or danger or selfish. Psychotic.

Neil is still there.

Andrew’s shoes make a rough sound on the roof when he slides into place by Neil. He settles easily and with him comes a faint cloud of smoke. Neil tilts his head toward Andrew; it lolls to the side lazily. Andrew can see the way the distant lamppost illuminates the column of Neil’s neck in a golden stroke. He has a hard time looking away.

Neil’s eyes are still closed. His lashes are long. They fan against his cheeks, dark, and Andrew wants to reach out and brush them with a finger. Just to feel. Just too know if they are as feathery as they seem.

He is looking too much.

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

Neil tenses. It is a tiny giveaway—how his lips press together just a little. Andrew has looked at them long enough to know the difference.

“You interrupted,” Neil says, soft. Andrew hears something in his answer. He never gives everything. Not exactly. Maybe it’s the result of his secrets—his kingdom—or maybe he can’t.

Andrew rolls his cigarette between his fingers. “You are faster than that.”

Neil smiles. It’s a slight curve that Andrew wants to chase with his finger. “Maybe.”

“Yes.”

There’s a shuffle of limbs. Neil rolls onto his side and his eyes open. They are—

—they are so _damn_ blue. They aren’t the same as Andrew remembers. Not when they met. Not even the first week. Whatever ice held onto spring has thawed. Neil’s eyes aren’t like blades. Instead of a cut, they fill Andrew. They are like a tiny ocean and he thinks he might drown in their siren call.

Andrew is not sure he would try to swim to the surface.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil asks. He is hushed. He looks equal parts captivated and confused.

He probably doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know what he looks like—how could he, when he avoids mirrors? Neil probably doesn’t know what anything looks like. He sees the world through that film of ice and nothing has broken it, yet.

But it is cracked. Just a little.

Andrew draws a leg up closer to his chest. He should not want, one part of him says. The rest of him disagrees. The rest of him knows he can. “What deal did you make, when you went?”

“It wasn’t a deal,” Neil says. He closes his eyes. “I had to see someone.”

“Your bird.”

“My bird,” Neil agrees. There’s a faint smile on his lips, again. Andrew reaches out to press his fingers against them and stops short. He can’t.

He should not. He should not care; it should not matter that he recognized the distance, when Neil came to pick him up. It should not matter that he saw the raw edges when Neil broke a mirror and took a sharp edge to his face.

None of it should matter. Neil should not.

_I don’t take,_ Neil had said. He said it and then he gave; he gave so much that he’s broken and bruised to shit. Andrew can’t exactly handle it.

“If I need to go to Columbia,” Andrew starts. He can’t finish the question. He barely makes it past saying need.

Neil opens his eyes. He looks over at Andrew, glittering, like this is not something monumental. Like there is no tentative balance. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

He should not say yes. “You said you didn’t want to go back.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

The smoke is heavy. Andrew wonders if it could shroud them both. If, for a moment, they could not be _them._ Maybe in absence, it would be easier.

“You have to watch Kevin,” Andrew says. A truth and a lie. _Yes,_ a little voice reminds him. _You have to say yes._ _You have to say something._

It’s too hard, now. Too much. Andrew takes a drag and watches Neil raise his hands to the sky. His fingers spread as if he wants to see only some of the stars. His hands are marked and Andrew wonders how many there are. How many scars are hidden beneath his clothes.

“I think it’s better, with you here,” Neil says. His voice is so small it almost isn’t there. His eyes are closed again—

—and that’s good, because Andrew cannot mask whatever is on his face. Whatever floats up, unbidden, because he is sober, and he is there. He is there and so is Neil. They are both breathing and maybe they are not quite real, but they are not quite real together. They are stuck in the same spot and they happen to be next to each other.

It is strange, to stand in the darkness of limbo and hear another voice call out to you.

“I am going to sleep,” Andrew says. “Sleep.”

Andrew stands. He’s not sure how to feel about what he feels. About everything that comes, with no filter to reduce it. The storm brews against his skin and Andrew thinks, _I may do something stupid._

_And it could be worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean I hope you can tell we are about to dive right into that Anderil angst
> 
> Thank you for being patient!!! I have a lot going on right now in life and I am dramatically broke, so...yeah. Sometimes I wish I could just write these fics for a living.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy. I hope you also enjoyed the mini-reveal of Neil's informant in the Nest. Jean will definitely come up again. Also, I am very much in love with the way that Butcher!Nathaniel and Neil are navigated. I like the concept of their pretty different functions clashing. The Butcher definitely has ordered some deaths, while Neil is more prone to throw himself in front of a bus than kill the bus driver. The commonality is that they definitely fight for their own.
> 
> As always, read/review/share! I love all your comments and feedback!


	6. World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew makes Neil feel like much more, and Andrew is more to him, too. Somewhere between the thunder and lightning, Neil takes a moment to breathe and finds Andrew replacing the smoke in his lungs. He likes it more than he should.

Neil doesn’t feel as lost, in Eden’s Twilight.

He hates the noise and the crowd. It would keep him safe and unnoticed, but maybe that’s why he hates it. It is too anonymous. It makes him feel like he doesn’t exist, again.

Andrew lounges on his chair. It’s a tall stool. One leg is bent sideways and the other dangles carelessly.

Tonight, the others are with them, too. Andrew had brought his trio to Neil’s door and then he had waited, because Neil silently gathered the others and they didn’t ask any questions. He was grateful for that. For the little allowance.

It is nice to feel necessary. To feel like he weighs something in the battle that Kevin wages against Riko.

It’s nice just for Neil, too. For him to feel separate from the fight. Like he could be a person, outside of the darkness.

“Your drinks won’t be spiked,” Andrew says. He is different, since becoming sober. Neil doesn’t like the silence and static that hangs around him.

Luckily, Neil has found ways to pierce through it. To catch a signal, for just a moment.

“That’s not why I don’t want them.”

Andrew’s eyes slide over Neil. Linger. He could ask something or say something, but he is still too far. Neil takes the initiative. He leans forward, elbows on the table. The fake tea light in the middle probably illuminates his face and the scars, he realizes. He scoots back, but not after seeing something flicker in Andrew’s eyes. Interest.

Something else.

Neil fidgets. One knee is bent up to his chest. His foot is pressed to the pole under the table. “I only ever used alcohol when I’m injured. If I drank it any other time, it wouldn’t work.”

“Wouldn’t it be a better idea to build a tolerance? Someone could get you drunk. Make you spill.”

That’s not what it would take, Neil almost says. Instead, he shifts in his seat again. His leg feels like it’s falling asleep, but he doesn’t care. Andrew is talking.

Why does he care?

“No,” Neil answers. “I have a tolerance. That’s not the point. It’s the feeling.”

There. He has him.

Andrew raises an eyebrow. There is understanding in his hazel eyes. He knows—they both know—and for some reason, that makes Neil’s heart skip.

He has never understood the phrase before. It is an odd feeling; terrifying and thrilling all at once. A small death. Neil is resurrected just a little warmer than he was before.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He could answer. He should do what he usually does—ask if it’s part of the game.

Neil should keep this safe. Keep himself safe.

It’s the last thing he wants to do.

So, Neil chooses not to clarify. He chooses to give up just a little more, because he can’t help it. He has watched so many of his pieces disappear in Andrew’s hands and Neil trusts that more than anything. Neil watches his secrets fade but he knows they won’t be forgotten. He knows Andrew could repeat all of them, word for word, and that—

—that mean something. Even if Neil doesn’t know what.

“I am telling you because you asked,” Neil says. His mouth feels dry and full all at once. His tongue is heavy.

Andrew’s eyes are still locked on him. “That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the truth.”

For some reason, it feels quiet. The club pounds around them but Neil thinks he can hear Andrew’s heartbeat. He thinks he can feel it, beating a rapid thread under his own.

“Why?” Andrew presses. He presses; he always does, but it’s never a push. Never a shove toward the edge of a cliff.

Yet Neil still feels as if he is falling.

Neil shakes his head a little. He can’t say. There are no words that he knows to explain. “I want to.”

Those precise words do something. Like a combination, they unlock whatever was hiding the secret in Andrew’s eyes. He is open, for the first time since Neil has met him. Andrew looks back at him and Neil almost drowns. He is almost buried alive by the landslide and he is certainly carried away. He feels distant when he thinks of the stars and the rooftop and the way Andrew pulled off every bandage—

—and, _oh_. “Oh,” Neil says. He breathes. “Oh—”

“Not this,” Andrew says. It’s almost to himself. He grinds his glass onto the table like it’s a cigarette. His legs swing over the seat of his chair.

Neil scrambles. He cannot let go. He is too stubborn; it’s why he’s alive. “You hate me,” he says. “You—”

“You’re right, I do.”

“Then why—”

Andrew walks toward the back door. Neil follows, because there is a look in Andrew’s eyes and no warning. No refusal. Not a word. Andrew almost punches the door open; his shoulders are tense. He stalks out like he is about to stab someone.

“I hate you,” Andrew says. “You’re not supposed to be real. You were supposed to be a side effect. A—”

“I am real,” Neil says. Because he can’t stop himself, he laughs. “I think. I’m—at least fifty percent.”

Neil thinks he smiles. He doesn’t know how it looks; he’s never known. He has never wanted to look in the mirror and see Nathan. The Butcher.

Andrew stares at him. Takes a step closer. He smells like cigarettes and leather. “Ninety percent. Ninety percent of the time—"

“What about the other ten?”

Of course, Neil interrupts. He can’t stop now that he’s started. Andrew just looks at him, a storm of aggravation and curiosity and the faintness of despair. He has so much in his eyes that Neil doesn’t know how anyone ever thought Andrew couldn’t feel. Didn’t—

—but he _does_ , he does take Neil’s face in his hands and they are warmer than Neil expected but not as warm as his lips. Not as warm as the feeling of his mouth when he kisses Neil, slow and easy. He is like the velvet inside Neil’s suit; he is petal-soft and so very hard. There are too many contradictions, like the way he puts so much effort into it and the way it’s Neil he is kissing.

None of it should happen or be right. It is. It is all so very real and good that Neil doesn’t think he can process it.

For a second, he is on autopilot. Neil’s hands slide toward Andrew’s arms and then there are hands on his wrists. They shove his arms to the wall and Andrew pauses. He pulls away enough to breathe—enough to speak—and Neil thinks speaking is really the last thing they should be doing, when there are much better things to do.

“You can’t,” Andrew says. His voice sounds so low and uneven that Neil feels his heart jump again. “If you do—”

He cuts himself off. Pauses. Neil doesn’t fight the grip on him. He lets Andrew pin him and thinks it is nice, to be held this way. To be tethered. There is no fear of floating away or fading.

“I won’t. You said I couldn’t.” It’s that simple to him. “What else?”

Andrew looks up. He searches Neil’s face; his eyes linger over the curve of Neil’s lips. He hesitates, and Neil wants what he sees. He wants Andrew. But he knows these words are ones that need to be spoken. He is certain of that.

“Don’t touch. Not unless I tell you, and only where I tell you.”

“Okay.”

Neil’s heart hammers away, a loaded pistol that blasts holes in his chest. He could bleed out under Andrew and not give a damn.

The way Andrew looks at him, Neil almost does. There is disbelief in his gaze, but also certainty. A belief in the truth. In what Neil has proven to him. His thumb slides under Neil’s bottom lip, a ghost of a touch. Andrew’s eyes are half-lidded. “You are unbelievable.”

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t believe me.”

It’s the truth. Maybe that’s why Andrew leans in again; that’s why he tilts his head and then his tongue slides into Neil’s mouth. It makes Neil’s head spin and he forgets what it was he was worried about. Why he even thought about staying away. Staying away from Andrew would be like trying to fight gravity. Neil was pulled in before he knew this existed.

He doesn’t mind it, though. It’s nice to feel the weight of Andrew pulling him down, and the touch of his lips makes Neil feel like he’s real.

* * *

Maybe it was a mistake, Neil muses. He has never really believed in mistakes the same way other people have—he doesn’t make them the way other people do, because every risk is higher for him. The Butcher doesn’t make mistakes, and anything that could be a fumble is twisted into something useful.

Neil isn’t sure how to make use of the fact that, more often than not, he turns around at practice to find Andrew’s eyes on him.

He wonders what Andrew was staring at.

“This is not the best plan you have ever had,” Dietrich says.

“Andrew is not a plan.”

That was…maybe too much. Dietrich just looks at Neil, something bleak in his expression. He finally gives in and shrugs; there are more important things to talk about. Important things, and not enough time.

“The Master doesn’t know. Still. We can arrange for the evidence to be sent.”

“No. I’d rather it be a public message.”

“…that does not sound like a good plan, either.”

“This is why you aren’t in charge,” Neil says, placid. Dietrich’s expression changes to something pained, but he keeps his mouth shut. For now. “Are we ready to extract the bird, if need be?”

“Always,” Dietrich says. His gaze is harder, with that answer. Neil wants to parrot something back to him about bad plans, but he decides to let it go. Support is something everyone deserves, he has come to find.

Well. Almost everyone. But Riko doesn’t deserve anything.

“Good. Next game, I announce. If there is word, we take him.”

Dietrich nods. He hesitates when he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Bella says Lola has been difficult. Nothing she can’t handle, but—but.”

“Right,” Neil mutters. Of course, Lola decides to have an issue, now. He wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged some of the old guard out of hiding, just to complain about the new Butcher. Kids on their lawn.

“We can arrange for that, too,” Dietrich reminds him. He is probably a little too invested in the idea. His hand unconsciously twists around the opposite wrist, where an angry slash of darkened skin rests. A burn scar.

“No,” Neil finally says. “It’ll make more of an example to bait her. If I move first, I compromise what I have built. I do not compromise.”

Dietrich nods, quiet. He starts to leave the classroom and then pauses. A hand twists over the strap of his backpack; his eyes are distant. When he finally speaks, he says, “None of us would ask you to leave, but if you did—what you made wouldn’t fall apart. We would make sure of that.”

“I know.”

* * *

“What did you do, in Baltimore?”

Right to it, then. Neil cautiously slides onto the roof and rests his head against the hard surface. Andrew waits for an answer and Neil waits to breathe in the smoke.

“Secrets,” Neil finally says. “Listening. There’s a lot you can do, with the truth.”

They know this. Andrew knows this. He is quiet for a long moment and Neil almost thinks he won’t ask anything else. He thinks, and then Andrew passes a cigarette over and asks another question. Sort of.

“Butchers aren’t typically sneaky, or quiet.”

“That’s what you think.” Neil smiles a little. It’s more sarcastic than amused. “One of the rules is never to get blood on the suit.”

“The white suit,” Andrew realizes. There’s a glint in his eye when he turns to Neil. You wore that on national television, he doesn’t say.

“Yes. No blood on the suit,” Neil lists. “Everything precise. If there is suffering, it shouldn’t be messy. It should all be to a point. To—”

Death.

Neil finds the cigarette in his hand immensely interesting. He stares at it and traces a finger along the invisible line that separates the colors. This is the line of him; the white and the tan-brown. Except somewhere along that line, things shifted. The balance is no longer what it used to be.

Andrew’s hand slides under his shirt and over his hip. Neil feels his breath stick in his throat and his heart races faster. Faster than when he runs, on the court. His words come out weak. “Is that a question?”

“No. It’s an answer.”

Neil didn’t ask. Or maybe he did, with his cut-off sentence and hesitation. Am I fine, he had wanted to ask. Do you trust me? Can you?

Why haven’t you run, yet?

Somehow, Andrew answers all of this with a single touch. With the brush of his fingers against Neil, at a place where skin is stretched over bone so tightly the sensation is explosive. Neil feels his eyes close. He struggles to get his words out.

“That promise. When did you break it?”

“I didn’t break it,” Andrew says, tense. He seems to notice his tone and starts again. “He knows what he gave up.”

“When?”

Andrew traces higher. Neil is aware that he is trying to distract him, so he opens his eyes and stares defiantly at Andrew. The hazel eyes that look back at him are darkly amused.

“The club,” Andrew says. His hand skips over Neil’s ribs like they’re playing the piano. He is coming dangerously close to being very far gone.

Andrew says it just to have the benefit of reminding Neil and making him dizzy. Fortunately, Neil knows that he’s only half of the equation. If Andrew wants to make it stick, he has to hit himself, too.

Neil smiles a little and turns into Andrew’s touch. He finds that they share the same breath; there is little air between them. Neil wants to touch badly—he wants to know what Andrew’s hair feels like between his fingers—but he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes, and lets that be the touch that caresses Andrew’s face.

“Do you remember what happened?” Neil asks. “Or were you drunk?”

Andrew pauses. Maybe for a minute, he contemplates how to answer. He realizes too soon that Neil is not being serious. His mouth is a displeased line, but he can’t hide the interest in his gaze. “I wasn’t. Maybe you were. You stumbled.”

“Did I? Maybe you were that good,” Neil muses. There’s a shadow over Andrew’s eyes. “I can’t rem—”

It’s a good thing, Neil thinks, that he knows how to push Andrew’s buttons. He likes the way he can nudge Andrew into doing what he wants. Andrew deserves that.

Andrew might take Neil apart with his mouth, but nothing about his kiss is methodical. Neil can never tell where anything is going to go, other than himself. He flies over the moon somewhere between Andrew’s tongue in his mouth and the pull of teeth on his bottom lip.

When Andrew pulls back, Neil follows him for a half-second. He is lost without the warmth. Andrew looks like he contemplates diving back in, but he waits and says, “Shoulders and above.”

Oh, Neil thinks. He has no words to say and no time for them. Andrew leans back down over him, and Neil loses himself to bliss, again. He only has enough presence of mind to find Andrew’s face with his hands—

—and _oh,_ he thinks. It is perfect. More than he could have imagined. He doesn’t want to hold Andrew too roughly, because there is an irrational fear in his chest that Andrew will disappear. That he is the ghost, and he is just a fiction that Neil made up after Thanksgiving.

It’s not a bad lie to tell himself.

* * *

_She’s been here,_ the text says.

It says other things, too, but Neil doesn’t care about them. He cares about the warning and he cares that practice is in fifteen minutes.

He can beat Kevin if he runs. Most of the Foxes are in class; they’re closer and they could arrive first. They could, if Neil didn’t run like hell was after him.

At the moment, he really feels like it is.

Neil throws himself off his bed and shoots a reply as he takes the stairs two at a time. He has to run.

He runs like he has only done one other time in life. He was just a child, then. Just ten. His mother held his hand and pulled him away, but they never made it. They weren’t far before they were brought back in, dragged to Nathan, and given up.

Neil never knew how to give up, though. He was always too stubborn.

The distance closes. He can see the other Foxes a few feet down the sidewalk; he thinks someone might call out to him, but he runs anyway. He runs right through the front doors; he runs like he will never stop because he never can, and then his feet slip and slide. Neil feels weightlessness hit and it is not the pleasant feeling of Andrew’s touch or the moment of exhilaration before a goal. It is the sick emptiness of a fall.

His breath leaves in a gasp and then Neil hits the ground, hard. One of his feet slams into a locker and his shoulder is a burst of pain. He barely saves his head from a hard knock.

It is at that moment that he realizes the liquid beneath him is not water. It is blood.

The smell invades his senses and he looks up to see, on the wall across from the lockers, a clear message. _Happy 19 th, Junior. Seven years and still a cub._

Neil tastes vomit at the back of his throat. He sees nothing but the red; smells nothing but metal. He can hear his mother and her screams. His father’s hand, poised, and the knives laid out by his arm. White everywhere—

—and someone crashes into the room.

“Fuck,” Matt says. He drains of color.

Neil can’t. He can’t breathe; can hardly think. His heart rattles in his chest like a pinball and his mind is stuck between past and present. He needs to not be; needs the Butcher to look on with clear eyes. He has to stop and separate, but in the moment, he can’t. There is too much blood.

Someone picks him up. Neil jerks, instincts kicking in, and Seth holds him tighter. “Move.”

They pass Andrew on their way out. He is only halfway from the front door. His gaze narrows, and he steps forward.

“Jesus Christ,” Wymack says. He crosses right in front of Andrew’s path. “Is that—”

“No,” Seth says, tight. “Why don’t you go look at the precious gift? He needs a minute.”

Seth doesn’t wait for an answer. He walks to the girls’ locker room, where he kicks the door with his foot. It slams against the wall and he lets it close again. Seth waits and then Allison appears, annoyed.

“What d—” she stops, too, her mouth open and something unreadable on her face. She backpedals. “Dan! Renee!”

“Let me down,” Neil finally says. He feels sticky and wrong. He starts to pull at his shirt. “I need to get out of this. I have to—”

“Shit,” Dan curses. She pulls Seth toward the back.

Neil twists. Seth is stronger and bigger than him, but Neil is desperate. He can smell the blood everywhere. “Off,” Neil says. He doesn’t care that the others are around, anymore. “I need it off—”

“Wait,” Seth warns, but it’s too late.

Neil rips his shirt over his head and beneath the copper smears, there are scars. He forgets to remember until they are there, on display. The crisscross of knife wounds and old gunshots. Healed burns. The press of an iron, from his father. A stab from Lola, a slip of the hand. Warped lines from stitches.

No part of Neil is unmarked. The scars trace down toward his jeans, and they cover his arms. If he could lay his skin out like a canvas, it would look like someone spilled paint all over it. It wouldn’t be as pretty.

“Oh, God,” Allison says. It is not normal to hear her voice that way—to hear something so close to truth on her lips. The catch in her voice brings Neil back to life.

His hands itch to take the shirt and cover up again, but there is no taking anything back. He stares at the shirt on the floor and watches the blood circle the drain while a shower head rains down over him. He didn’t even notice it was on.

“God the Father,” Neil says. He smiles, ironic and vicious. He doesn’t know what the others think, and he can’t bring himself to care. “That sounds about right.”

* * *

Aaron is outside the classroom when Neil leaves. Neil pauses by the doorway, wary, and waits for something. The other shoe.

“I have somewhere to be,” Aaron says, instead.

“Then go.”

Aaron stares. Neil looks around the hallway and gives in. He’s too tired to talk in circles. “Well? What?”

“Seth told me to make sure you don’t die on your way back to the dorms.”

Of course, he did. Neil still remembers being carried around the gym like he was injured. He wondered after the fact what happened with Seth and Andrew. Neil was certain Andrew was two steps from breaking down the door to the girls’ locker room, after he saw Neil.

Neil must have missed quite a show.

“I don’t need you to look after me. I have—”

“Maybe it’s not about you,” Aaron says. He is finally annoyed. He looks like he’s itching to reach out and direct Neil, but he doesn’t. A wise choice.

Neil raises an eyebrow. “This, from you.”

“Call it character development,” Aaron mutters. “Let’s go.”

He’s done enough digging. Neil follows Aaron away from the school in silence. It isn’t tense or unusual. They are on a similar wavelength, Neil thinks. He’s not sure what it is, but it might have something to do with what they want. Neil thinks they are both very abnormal people that want desperately to be average. Maybe whatever Aaron has learned—his development, as he calls it—is the choice he made.

Neil wonders if Aaron still wants to be normal. He wonders if it even matters.

Matt is at the door to the dorms. He nods once, like he is making sure Neil is whole and unmarked, and then waves. “See you later.”

Neil watches Matt walk to class and is a little amused. “You all remember that I am the protection, right? I have kept Seth alive, and I kept Andrew safe inside.”

“Inside.” Aaron’s feet stutter. Neil almost snorts, because Aaron focused on the wrong thing, and then he realizes. That was something Neil wasn’t supposed to say. No one knew.

Well.

“I know this is not about me,” Neil says. He straightens and turns to look Aaron in the eye. “But it seems like I haven’t made this clear. I can protect myself. Whatever pain you think I am in and whatever hurt you think you see, there has always been worse.”

“Do you not understand that doesn’t make it better?” Aaron asks. He bites the words out like they are brittle.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I do my job, and you don’t make that job more difficult. The more time you spend thinking you can somehow help me, the less time you will spend helping yourself.”

“I think you took care of helping us,” Aaron snaps. “Whether we asked for that or not.”

He might be right. Neil has done more than he was asked. He has done more than just eliminate threats and gather secrets. Neil has made his way into the team, somehow, to mend their broken bonds and hold them all together. He is stretched tight around the team and his arms strain with the task of trying to keep them together. Trying to hold them up, before time runs out and Neil snaps like a broken rubber band.

He is going to fall to pieces. He is going to die. It is only a matter of time. But death doesn’t matter to him—he doesn’t matter—because _you can kill someone by doing nothing_.

And he does not want to kill, again.

“I am not real,” Neil reminds Aaron. “Don’t waste your time on someone that doesn’t exist.”

* * *

“What do you do, to people that need to be taken care of?”

Andrew asks the hard questions. He sits across from Neil on the roof and he is all edges; all sharpness. Maybe Aaron told him something. He had not seemed so relaxed as he usually did, when he appeared that night.

Neil hesitates with his hand halfway to lighting Andrew’s cigarette. He takes a moment to light it and breathe, and then he answers. “There was a man who threatened one of my contacts, once. I left a mark that no one would see and a threat. That was all it took.”

“That’s all it takes?”

“Not always.”

He wonders what Andrew is truly asking. Usually, he can tell. Tonight, he is unsure. What does Andrew want to know? Maybe he wants to know if Neil would kill. If he has. If he wants to.

Maybe he is finally asking whether he wants those scarred hands to touch him.

Neil pulls his hands under himself like he can pretend they aren’t there. He thinks they might shake when he talks. “Someone tried to attack me, when I became the Butcher. I defended myself. He died.”

Andrew is quiet. He gives just a little—because Neil knew, and because no one can weigh one truth against another for value. “I promised Aaron I would not let her touch him. That’s why.”

That’s why the accident. Andrew didn’t protect himself or do it for his interest. He never does anything for his interest, Neil knows. Not except maybe the kisses. The touch. Neil hopes that’s the truth.

_You can kill someone by doing nothing._

_How did your father die, Nathaniel?_

He has never answered, and then he does. “I planned to kill my father. I saw what he did. I knew what he wanted from me. He killed my mother and two years later, I was going to kill him.”

“You were young.” Andrew doesn’t ask. He knows, probably from vague math and a guess.

“I was twelve. I was going to kill him for what I knew he would do. For the war. But the Moriyamas knew. They knew their Butcher was going to stray, so they sent fire. They burned everything, and I watched it happen. I let them in. I let him burn.”

There is no doubt in Neil’s mind that the Moriyamas have always known. That Riko knows.

Andrew speaks, but he doesn’t ask or say what Neil expects. “He was theirs? And you?”

“He was theirs,” Neil agrees. He smiles a little. “It was a promise. I was not bound to it. They wanted me—a hostage, maybe, or another child. But I was my father’s only, and he didn’t want to give me up. He wanted me to become him. So, he refused.”

“They had two reasons to kill him.”

“A promise is a promise,” Neil agrees, soft. He thinks about Andrew and Kevin; Andrew and Aaron. About himself and all the Foxes he tied his life to, when he came to help.

He was dead before he left his castle. He knew, somewhere inside, that he would not return to Baltimore. Not the way he left it.

Andrew unfolds a little. Slides out of his stiff pose and the faint anger that hung around him. “You said you knew Kevin, when you were ten.”

Neil laughs. Of course, Andrew remembers. He has perfect recall. Neil had noticed, early on, when Andrew would bring up old conversations. When he would know before others what was happening. His memory is perfect. Perfectly annoying, sometimes.

“I did.”

“You also said he didn’t make it out alone.”

Neil’s smile tightens. “No. I had my contact, already. When my father died—it was a mess. It was easy to pull strings. Create an opening. Too much distraction and plenty of time.”

“Does he know that you helped him?”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

Andrew doesn’t seem convinced. He waits and then says, “Doesn’t he? He thought he made that choice alone. You’re going to lie to him?”

“He did make it alone,” Neil says slowly. “I made sure there was a clear path. He didn’t have to take it.”

Looking back, Neil supposes there are ways it could have gone wrong. Kevin could have been caught, and Jean might have had to step in. Neil would have lost his contact, and he would be in a very different place, now. Everything would have been different, just like if Kevin had the strength to leave the Moriyamas sooner.

It’s a waste of time to think about other paths. All he knows is the one his feet are set on.

“What about you? You didn’t take that path, that day.”

“No,” Neil agrees. He is distracted by the moonlight on the side of Andrew’s face. The bluish cast to his cheek. He can feel himself falling into a familiar orbit. Andrew slides closer. “I didn’t. Only one of us could ever really make it.”

“You made it here,” Andrew says.

It’s an uncharacteristic concession. Neil thinks he likes it.

“I did,” Neil agrees. “I’m glad I did.”

Andrew leans over and then Neil thinks of nothing—no past, no path, no pain. He only knows the feeling of the moment, and the hands at his chest. They seem to burn away the scars they pass over, remaking every inch of skin as they go. Andrew shapes Neil into something new, and Neil finds that he likes what he has become. He likes that he is part of a whole that is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was A Whole Trip
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Finally, some peace for our boys (or as peaceful as it can get, for now). This was probably one of my favorites to write. I always love writing the 'falling together' portion of their story in every AU. I hope I've done it justice.
> 
> As always, read/review/share! I love all your comments. Remember that I also update this to my exactly13percent tumblr, if you ever want to follow and get notifications there. I also post sneak peeks and other fandom work there. Also, if anyone ever draws something for my stories, I will link it in the chapter and reblog it!


	7. Explode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has never been on his side. Neil makes the most of what he has, even with everything happening at once—and then, it stops.  
> All he wants is one more kiss.

The game ends and Neil can feel the sweat on his face starting to make the makeup slide. He knows from Allison’s glances that he’s right.

This is a good time to make a move. Or a bad one; Neil doesn’t really think there’s a difference.

He leaves the court with Dan. She seems surprised that he follows her but doesn’t say anything. There is no reason to turn him away. There are always at least two Foxes on media duty, and Neil has avoided that particular role until now.

It’s a good day to ruin lives.

Neil lets Dan take the lead for most of the questions and then, right before the interviews are over, he distractedly wipes at his face. It is a casual move. Casual, but his arm wipes away the already-slick makeup on his face.

They see the number and all chaos descends. Neil can’t keep track of the cacophony of questions, until a woman raises her voice over the din.

“What does this mean?” she asks.

Neil wants to laugh. It means a lot, he thinks, but none of those things can be said. He takes a moment, waits for the frenzy to die, and then opens his mouth.

“I spent a period with the Ravens, over the holidays. Riko personally invited me. While I was happy to visit and test their skills, Riko was convinced I would accept a position with the team. He was sorely mistaken.”

Gasps. Scandalized shouts. No one would turn down the Ravens. It’s ridiculous. Neil listens to them and silently laughs to himself. He wonders what Dan looks like, but he doesn’t turn to her.

“Why would you turn down the best team in the league?” one of the reporters asks. “Do you not think your skills are sufficient?”

“The best?” Neil laughs. “Last I checked, the Foxes came from the near-bottom and are in the finals. That seems more impressive than a team that has managed to maintain a…monotonous career. Skill is nothing without application. Not that it matters. I would never accept an invitation from a student like Riko. He has no power, no matter how much he thinks he does. I look forward to humbling him on the court.”

Neil turns away from the questions and the exclamations. He leaves the interview where it is and heads toward the locker rooms. Dan is right behind him; he can hear her footsteps, even though she doesn’t speak.

Wymack apparently sees something on Dan’s face. He asks, voice full of dread, “What did he do?”

The others appear from seemingly nowhere. Neil is only a little surprised. He guesses they were curious about his choice to go talk to the media, or maybe they noticed the frenzy.

Dan takes a breath. “He showed them the tattoo, said he turned the Ravens down, called them mediocre, and said Riko was a powerless kid that he was going to wipe the floor with.”

“Oh, my God,” Matt says softly. His voice breaks a little and Neil looks up, alarmed, only to see Matt seconds from laughter. He is grinning like Neil has never seen before. “You are so beautiful, Neil.”

“I want to see,” Allison says immediately. She snatches her phone from her back pocket. “This has got to be up on YouTube in five minutes.”

Kevin looks pale. He is the one that holds Neil’s attention. There is abject horror on his face. Kevin shakes his head faintly and asks, “Why?”

“I am not afraid of him,” Neil reminds Kevin. “And I am doing what you asked.”

“That’s not—” Kevin chokes. “He’s going to kill you. He’s going to—”

“He can’t do shit. You and I both know that. Besides, it’s not him I’m appealing to. It’s the Master.”

Kevin might faint. Neil has a brief image of Andrew dragging his body out the door and almost laughs. Neil waits for what’s next—a question or a warning—but instead, he is interrupted.

It is a very good interruption.

Andrew comes out from the direction of the showers, half-dressed. He has a shirt pooled around his neck that he yanks his arms through as he walks. Neil is momentarily very distracted by the sight.

Of course, then, Andrew comes over and pushes Neil’s face to the side with a thumb to his jaw. Neil is not happy to look away from Andrew, but he consoles himself with the feeling of the finger on his skin. Andrew hums lowly as he looks at the tattoo on Neil’s cheek.

“What was the point of that, other than to satisfy yourself?”

“That wasn’t the point. That was a pleasant side effect.”

Andrew gives him a long look. Neil bites his smile. “So, there was no point,” Andrew says.

“There was,” Neil finally concedes. “The Master doesn’t know what Riko did. This is a public rebuke. Riko will be punished, and he will slip up. The Master might extend an invitation. If he does, I could use that.”

“You will not go there,” Andrew says.

Neil pauses. He wasn’t going to ask for permission, but Andrew says it like it’s not a question. As if they have a promise, the way Andrew and Aaron did. The way Andrew and Kevin do.

For a moment, Neil is uncertain. He hesitates. He doesn’t know—

—he doesn’t know. He isn’t sure if he promised with every kiss, or with every moment they looked at the stars. He’s not sure what it means to be tangled around another person, and he doesn’t know if he has given something invisible with all the breath he’s given to Andrew.

Except Neil sees the sudden annoyance on Andrew’s face, and it’s directed at himself—not at Neil. It was a mistake, Neil realizes. A gut reaction. Instinctive.

Something swells in his chest. Neil wants to say something—to show how much it means—but he doesn’t get the chance. Wymack reappears, arms crossed over his chest and mouth a thin line.

“We can talk about this when we get back. Until then, maybe you can think of a way to explain why it’s necessary to piss of one of the heads of the mafia.”

He could think. But Neil will probably spend the ride wishing he could hold Andrew’s hand.

* * *

Abby ordered food. Before it arrived, Allison played the video of Neil’s interview on the television and rewound it several times. Matt laughs every time Neil refers to Riko as powerless. He laughs even more when Neil says Riko will be humbled.

Once they settle in to eat, Wymack asks.

“What exactly is going to happen, if Riko freaks out?”

Neil sighs. He looks down at his orange chicken, forlorn, and gives Wymack a baleful glare. He just wanted food.

“He’ll take it out on whoever is nearby,” Neil begins, and then he can’t finish.

Kevin literally chokes. He coughs on whatever is in his mouth and then turns to Neil violently. “He’ll—”

Renee is halfway to her phone. Neil holds up his hand and snaps.

It’s a very bizarre thing to do, to get everyone’s attention. But the Butcher is used to it. After all, when you are in the presence of the Butcher, you are silent, until you are told to speak. One snap, and someone in the next room would come to the Butcher’s side.

“Before you shatter my well-laid plans,” Neil says slowly, “I need all of you to stop. No phones.”

Renee gives him a long look. He knows her in passing; she has been nice enough to him, but he knows that Renee recognizes the danger he poses. She keeps her distance when she can.

It says a lot that she sets her phone down, but it’s probably because Andrew is staring at her.

“Fantastic,” Neil murmurs. “I’d say I can’t believe you don’t trust the person you fucking asked for help, but I believe it.”

“Explain,” Kevin presses, strangled.

“The one closest to Riko at the moment is Jean. Of course, we wanted it that way.”

“We,” Kevin echoes. His head descends into his hands. “We. You—”

“I’ve known him for some time. Before the Nest,” Neil adds. “I knew he would go there and he knew it would be difficult to leave. When I took the Butcher for myself, I gave him a chance. I offered freedom. He turned it down, because he was too far in and he thought he could do better.”

“He turned it down,” Kevin says. There is a faint note of anger and disbelief in his voice. “But he had a way out. He could have—”

“Please,” Neil says softly. “Tell me more about how he was wrong not to leave. Remind me how long you stayed.”

Silence descends on the room. Neil lets it linger just long enough to be uncomfortable. He doesn’t like playing dirty, but he doesn’t have a choice. Not when so much is at stake.

The more questions they ask, the more they know. The more danger they’re in.

The more likely he’ll spill.

“My point is, Riko will lash out at Jean. I have a plan in place to extract him. It will be easy for me to show up and take him away. At that point, the Master can either extend a formal apology for Riko, or he can double down.”

“You think he will let you leave,” Andrew says.

“I know he will,” Neil says evenly. “I am not going as a Fox. I am going as the Butcher. I will be admitted, and I will take what I want. When I leave, I will not be followed.”

“Isn’t this a trump card?” Renee interjects. Of course, it would be her. Neil meets her gaze and sees more than he wants to know. He sees what he didn’t want to dig into. There is a history there that he has no right to know.

“Meaning?” Neil asks. He won’t say it on his own.

“If you play this—if you go as the Butcher—you can’t do it again.”

“No,” Neil agrees, quiet. “But I owe this much to Jean, and we only have two games left. There’s no time. If we are going to bring Riko to his knees, he must be pushed as far as he will go.”

Renee is quiet, but he can see understanding in her gaze. She has learned something from his answer—something that makes her regard him differently. He wants to laugh.

Has she seen what he will do for the ones he cares about? Neil feels suddenly exhausted. He can only hope Renee doesn’t know that Neil has already gone further. His trump card is not just a play he won’t be able to use again. It is his life.

The Butcher has a purpose. He is an equal, and he has his territory. The moment the Moriyamas decide he is a liability rather than a partner, they will be swift to act.

Neil is almost out of time. His days count down like a calendar in his mind. He can almost watch the pages flutter and fall away.

There’s not much time, so he lets his hand hang by Andrew’s leg under the table.

Andrew holds it.

* * *

“What?”

Andrew turns to look at Neil. There is a trace of displeasure on his face. He holds a cigarette in his left hand; his arm rests on the roof and it’s bent at the elbow to keep the smoke near his face.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Neil smiles. “I know. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

Andrew closes his eyes and breathes in smoke. Neil watches him and desperately wants to reach out and touch him. He always feels like Andrew isn’t real, when they’re like this. Neil moves—he is not sure what he is going to do—and then the door to the roof opens.

“There you are,” Nicky says. “We’re going out for dinner. The girls went out to a club and Aaron’s with Katelyn. You coming?”

Neil examines Andrew’s face. “No,” he decides. “Thanks.”

“Don’t catch a cold,” Nicky says. He grins and bounds back down the stairs. Neil waves distractedly.

Andrew pulls himself off the roof. He is still somewhere in the distance. Neil doesn’t know why, and he wants to bring him back, but he keeps his distance. He lets Andrew guide them toward his dorm; the halls are unusually quiet. Everyone is gone.

Everyone is gone.

Neil feels a flush creep up his face. He tries to press it away with his palms, but he’s not sure it works. He should not be so flustered, but—

—but, it’s Andrew. This is one thing Neil had never known to hope for and now that he has it, the unnamable sweetness, he cannot help the ache in his chest.

He doesn’t want to go. For all the ways he’s prepared himself, Neil does not want to leave this behind. Leave Andrew. Neil isn’t stupid enough to believe he’s important. To believe he will leave a mark. It’s just…

…he’s afraid.

“What are you thinking about?” Andrew holds Neil’s face in his hands and his voice is a low murmur. Neil realizes they’re inside; the door is at his back.

“You.”

“Liar,” Andrew mutters. He takes the lie from Neil’s lips, anyway.

There is a very certain danger of Neil simply falling to the ground. He is always too weak under Andrew’s hands. Nothing makes as much sense as the touch of those hands. They find the right places even though Neil doesn’t know them, himself. He finds them just as Andrew does.

Andrew’s hands trace up Neil’s sides. They are slowly wandering, without any set destination. He only wants to memorize things, maybe. Or it could be a map he is making. Neil doesn’t care.

What Neil cares about is that Andrew is distracted. His face is turned to the side and Neil can see the curve of his neck, open and waiting. Neil only has a fuzzy idea, but it intrigues him. He leans in and waits a moment, just to breathe in the smoke that lingers on Andrew’s skin. The faintness of sweat from their time outside.

Neil opens his mouth to taste the skin at Andrew’s neck and he can feel the way Andrew’s pulse jumps against his tongue. Andrew jerks under the touch and Neil immediately backs away, heart pounding in his chest.

“Was that b—”

“No,” Andrew says. He sounds strangled. Uneven. Neil feels heat flood him, like lava through his veins. Andrew breathes slowly. “No. Not bad.”

“Okay,” Neil says. “Good.”

He leans in and does the same thing again. This time, the hitch in Andrew’s breath is followed by a small rumble. Neil realizes with mixed humor and horror that it’s almost like a growl.

Neil likes that Andrew lets go, just a little. He is not loud, but he’s not quiet, either. Things escape. Neil likes that things escape—that the cage of Andrew’s body becomes less of a prison, for just a little while. Maybe anyone could do this, but Neil is allowed to now, and he loves that. He doesn’t want to let it go.

Andrew’s fingers linger on Neil’s collarbone. He pushes, and the quiet direction barely manages to stop Neil from what he is determinedly doing. Andrew finds Neil’s mouth then, more need than calculation.

Somewhere along the kiss, Andrew’s hands wander toward Neil’s sweatpants. His fingers pull the edge of the band, but then Andrew stops.

“Do you—”

“Yes,” Neil says. It leaves his mouth so quickly he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. This is right.

Andrew lingers, something else on his lips. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I am. I’m sure,” Neil repeats. “I am sure that I like kissing you. I am sure you like it when I kiss your neck, and I like that you like it. I am sure I want your hands—”

“Shut up,” Andrew growls. He kisses Neil harder and his hands pull at Neil’s clothes. They still stand up against the wall, but Neil doesn’t care. They could be in a closet somewhere and he wouldn’t care, so long as he had Andrew.

Andrew touches him carefully, with the same exploration as before. He is slow and soft in a way Neil still can’t reconcile. Andrew is not a soft person; he should not be, but he is. Neil feels that softness in the way Andrew presses against him, and their heartbeats seem to sync through their chests. Neil feels it when Andrew kisses him softly and when Andrew stroke Neil for the first time, his hand fit in a perfect circle.

It's just another thing Neil has never known. Just another rush in his blood; the way Andrew breathes quietly against his mouth and the taste of his skin. Andrew’s hair is soft as silk when it brushes against Neil. Whatever is between them is uncomplicated just for now, and Neil lets is be. He gasps through the rush that hits him while Andrew claims his open mouth, free hand tracing something onto Neil’s chest.

Neil comes back to himself, fuzzy and static. “I can—”

“Not yet,” Andrew says. His voice is strained and his hand curls around Neil’s arm. He fights with himself and kisses Neil again, like he wants to stay. Neil wants him to stay. “Wait.”

He waits. Of course, he waits. Neil presses himself against the wall and tries to find his breath while he imagines he can reach Andrew through the wall. He imagines things could be that simple, just for a moment, and he closes his eyes.

If he could have one thing from this life—one thing to take with him—it would be this.

* * *

Of course, when it happens, it is not quiet.

They are at practice and Renee gets a phone call. She disappears to answer it and returns already changed. “It’s time,” she tells Neil. “Now.”

“Stay.”

“I—”

“I need you to stay,” Neil repeats. He knows it’s selfish. He just can’t help it. He can’t not see what she is. What she knows.

Andrew is the only other person that can keep the Foxes safe, and if something happens to Neil, well—

—well.

“You should not go alone.”

“I won’t,” Neil says. He pulls his phone from his back pocket. The other Foxes are still on the court, but he knows they are watching. Neil dials Dietrich’s number and waits.

“Time.” It’s not a question. Neil can already hear Dietrich moving.

“Yes. Time.”

* * *

A flurry of activity culminates in Neil and Dietrich taking an immediate flight. There is no need for the rushed horror of a drive. Dietrich has the reservation before he even arrives at the gym to pick Neil up.

The flight is silent. Neil sleeps, because he needs the rest. He waits until they are close to landing to slip into the bathroom and change into his suit.

Outside the airport, red car awaits. Neil looks it over. “Isn’t this a bit much?”

“No,” Dietrich says simply. He opens the driver’s side of the convertible and slides in. “Style is important, you said.”

Neil can’t argue that.

They go to the Nest and find the campus an absolute mess. While most of the students know to keep away from the stadium, Neil suspects there’s some kind of party going on. Music and laughter burst out of every available building. Neil smiles to himself, grim, and wonders if Riko waited until the festivities picked up. Did he think no one would notice?

Neil’s last thought is that this will be final. When he walks in as the Butcher, he will walk out as the Butcher. If he does not, he will not survive.

Nathaniel arrives at the front door to find people waiting. An honor guard, it looks like, along with the Master’s right-hand man.

“We did not expect you,” the man says.

“I would not have intruded if it were not important,” Nathaniel says. “Send my regards to the Master. I offer information, and my services.”

The man pauses. He steps aside and gestures, sharp. “You will wait, while I convey your message.”

“I have no more important business,” Nathaniel replies. “But I would stress the sensitivity of time, for the Master.”

The man’s eyes narrow. He turns on his foot, and Nathaniel is led by the others into a room. Dietrich is quiet until they are alone. “It won’t be easy to make him accept help. This could go completely wrong.”

“There is no world in which this does not favor me,” Neil says quietly.

Dietrich opens his mouth to speak, but then he stops. His eyes widen, and he turns in his seat. “You won’t actually—”

“I will. If I must. The Butcher does not fear getting his hands dirty.”

“Neil,” Dietrich says. It is the first time he really uses the false name, but he uses it like it is the only name that matters. If only. “You can’t. If you kill them, you die. Maybe not now, but later. When—”

“The old man is old. He will die,” Neil says evenly. “I could wipe them all out, now,” he muses. “Just one move.”

“You know what would happen. You know the chaos that would ensue.”

“I do. But do I care?”

“Yes,” Dietrich says, firm. “Because you know who will be hurt by it.”

He is right. Not that Neil would ever admit it. Still, Neil would do it. To take Jean and return to the Foxes for the finals, Neil would kill the Master and Riko both. He would slaughter them in their castle, leave the corpses for the family, and leave spotless. His white suit would not even wrinkle.

Despite it all, Neil hopes it does not come to that. He hopes the Master will have the grace to accept Neil’s help. He hopes that his work has not been for nothing, and that he can still change lives.

The man returns. He opens the door and the Master enters.

It has been a long time. Still, Nathaniel has not forgotten the pleasantries. He cycles through the proper greetings and finishes level with the Master, gaze unwavering.

“You offer information. What would you know that we do not?” the Master asks.

“Riko has left a mark,” Nathaniel says evenly.

“We have disciplined him for your…unfortunate injury.”

What words. Nathaniel almost smiles at them, but he refrains. It would be unwise to make a scene. Instead, Nathaniel inclines his head in recognition. “I am sure he will appreciate a firm hand to guide him along the proper path. It seems, however, that this discipline may have come too late.”

“For what?”

“He has taken one of his, outside. Prying eyes have seen marks. He returned to campus not a few hours ago, amidst the current chaos. They were seen.”

Lies. Half-lies. Nathaniel relies on his reputation and the truth in them to make his point. He relies on the fact that Riko has dug his own hole. Jean’s abuse is still secret—he never left the Nest—but Nathaniel could remedy that easily. All too easily.

“You think this is abnormal behavior,” the Master says. So he says, but he doesn’t say the information isn’t new.

Nathaniel finally smiles. “The behavior among the team is not something I have any word in. His behavior regarding family and discretion, however, leaves much to be desired.”

It is the nail in his coffin. He calls Riko a moody teenager and it feel very fucking amazing. Nathaniel pauses, lets the silence drag, and then adds, “I came as a fellow master of trade. My information was a gift. I would also like to extend my services, to the one who now holds your fate.”

“You think I would turn such a sensitive individual over to you,” the Master says.

This is where he must choose his words carefully. One slip and Nathaniel could bring the Moriyamas down on his head early. One slip, and he could lose Jean.

“Fear and pain are useful tools,” Nathaniel says. “And I am their master. I offer as a service of good faith. To pave a new way—not as the one the Butcher before me tread. After all, times do change, and those that cannot change to fit them will be left to crumble.”

Silence. The Master observes Nathaniel, reclined in his chair and without a care. He raises his right hand. Beside Nathaniel, Dietrich tenses.

“What was his name, did you say?”

“I did not say him, or a name,” Nathaniel says. He lets the reply linger and tries to see past the Master’s mask. Is there anger? Embarrassment? Fury? “My source only described someone tall, with curly hair. Fair. Although it should not be hard to find them, with the injuries they have.”

The Master regards Nathaniel with something like contempt. He might be angry that he did not catch Nathaniel, or he might be angry that he has maneuvered himself into an agreement. Either way, the Master is displeased, and Nathaniel wants to laugh more than ever.

“Bring him,” the Master tells his man. “And send them all on their way.”

The Master rises from his seat. Nathaniel follows suit and bows only halfway, out of respect that is not deserved. He waits for the room to empty again before he exhales.

Dietrich rubs his hands over his face. “I remember now why I hate these things. Too much talking. Not enough fight.”

“Now, who’s being unreasonable?” Neil murmurs.

He does not speak again until Jean is brought out.

It is worse and just as he expected. There are obvious bruises and cuts, and probably bruised ribs. Jean leans in on himself, careful—but more than that, he looks shocked. Unsure. As if he can’t believe Neil is there.

Neil—

—Neil has not seen Jean in years. He remembers only a younger man with wide eyes and a smile that hid like the sun behind clouds. He remembers French and patient pronunciation. Warm hands ready with bandages.

The only thing he wants to do is hold him and reassure him, but Neil keeps his formal pose and leads the way out. He leaves Dietrich to Jean until they are in the car and ten miles away. Dietrich pulls over and Neil immediately throws the passenger door open to scramble toward the backseat.

“You’re fine,” Neil says. The first words that leave his lips and he strengthens them with his hands on Jean’s shoulders. “You’re fine. Are you—do I need to—”

“I’m fine,” Jean echoes. It is distant at first, but he draws closer at Neil’s touch. He opens like a flower to the sun and Neil tries not to think about how long he has gone without a touch that wasn’t meant to hurt.

Just a little longer than himself, he thinks. Too long.

“You are coming home,” Neil says quietly. “I’m going to keep you safe. I promised.”

Jean laughs, ironic. There is still light in his eyes, though, and Neil seizes it with all his might. He will not let it go for his life.

* * *

Neil had to pull Kevin aside and threaten to slap him.

Well, he gave him a look that threatened a slap.

“Stay away,” Neil had warned. “He doesn’t need you right now.”

It was the painful truth. After the flight back and the chaos of Abby looking after Jean, Neil had barely joined practice for their semifinal game. He feels a little like he’s constantly running; there is no time to process what he’s done or what consequences will reach him.

Neil is only glad for the game when it comes, because two days after he broke Jean out of the Nest, he still doesn’t believe it. He has too much anticipation and anxiety to hold it together for much longer. Things are going too well to be real.

Andrew stands next to him, before the game, on the bus.

“We are here,” Andrew says.

Neil wants to ask, are we? Instead he says, “Yes. We are.”

It is more for Andrew than himself. Neil can lie all he wants, but he knows his worth and his uses. He is only as good as the expiration date on his back, and it is starting to look more like a target every day.

Andrew shuffles closer and Neil lets his kiss chase the thoughts from his mind. Here, at least, it is only the two of them. There are no troubles that could reach them. No time that could force them apart. Neil feels his world revolve around the steady presence that is Andrew, and he leans on that certainty with all the unreal weight of his body.

When Andrew moves away, Neil smiles a little. A silly thought comes to mind. “Will you do something for me?”

“Depends.”

Neil laughs, a little huff of air at Andrew’s response. “Tell me why. Why me.”

Andrew is quiet. His hand tightens a little on Neil’s wrist. Neil opens his mouth to take it back—to reassure Andrew he doesn’t need to know—but he is too late.

“You should not be real,” Andrew says. His words are almost too quiet to hear. He traces the scars on Neil’s face like they aren’t scars—as if they are beautiful, somehow. “And you should not want this. You should never have treated me the way you did. Do.”

“What?” Neil asks. He wants to laugh, but he feels too much like he might cry. “Like what?”

“Like I am human. The same.”

“Thank you,” Neil says. He leans closer to hide his tears and because he needs to kiss Andrew, just one more time. One more, before it ends. “You’re a human. Not just to me. You _are_. You are perfect.”

One more kiss. It’s short, because Andrew starts to tug him toward the door of the bus, but it’s all Neil can have. He has to enjoy it. He does.

* * *

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

Neil talks to the press with Dan. By the time they’re done, the locker room is empty. Neil goes to shower alone and then—

—then, somehow, he is in darkness.

He wakes in a moving car. His hands are cuffed to something and his head pounds. The first thing he thinks is that he never said anything to Andrew. He couldn’t. All their last moments—that talk on the bus—wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. Not for what Andrew was; not for what he meant.

“Awake? Oh, good,” Lola says. She grins, feral and sharp.

Neil wants to slap her. He wants to kick her through the door of the moving car. He wants to fight his way out with blood and bone—

—and he can’t. He breathes in and exhales, all the memories and love and security he has stolen for the past few months. He lets it all fade and he looks at Lola, through the clear eyes of the Butcher.

“This will be your last mistake.”

Lola’s face twists. She lunges into the front and grabs something. When she comes back, she shoves the cigarette lighter into his arm. Nathaniel bites down on his cry; by now, it is weak. He does not bend to pain.

He has had years to learn that trick.

“You think anyone is loyal to you? You’re a joke,” Lola hisses. “We all suffered when you took your father’s place. You’re a coward.”

“I am not the one that handcuffed a nineteen-year-old, just to torture him.”

Lola shoves the burner on his skin, again. Nathaniel knows the smell all too well. Familiarity and knowledge claw at his throat, carried by a wave of bile. He keeps it down.

“No one will look for you,” Lola says quietly. “And your friends won’t be able to. We’ll make sure of that.”

“The more you open your mouth, the more wrong you are,” Nathaniel replies. “But keep talking. Your own stupidity has already killed you.”

He loses track of the burns, after that. They don’t matter, anymore. What matters is that he is gone; he can’t watch over his Foxes anymore, and he only has his safety net to pull tight around them. Neil hopes Dietrich can handle the team. He hopes they are safe.

Neil hopes he can make it out to apologize, but he knows there is a good chance he won’t. After all, he sent his energy and resources to his team.

Lola is right. No one is coming to look for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was written all at once today, because I lost track of time and forgot my own upload schedule...RIP in Pieces.  
> Thank you for your continued support! I really, really appreciate it. I know I've said it a thousand times, but my wrist is currently hella sore and my work sucks but this makes it worth it.  
> I hope you enjoy this installment. I hope you enjoy all of them. As always, read/share/review. I'll see you soon...


	8. Underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan always had plans. Methods. He was a Butcher of style, even if he was set in his ways.  
> When Neil is taken, it is messy. He cannot hope to survive, because there is no one to say that he is useful. No reminder that Nathaniel holds more than just a title in his hands.  
> In the end, he thinks of his Foxes, and he thinks of Andrew. They are all that matter to him, anymore.

Neil has become a constant presence.

Not that Andrew would complain. Neil is just part of his world, now, and Neil has taken that part with more grace than anyone before him. If you could call Neil graceful.

So. Neil is a constant presence and because of that, Andrew knows things about him. He knows—

—the way Neil secretly hates mornings, because he has to remember to put on a mask; the way Neil doesn’t like things that are too sweet; the way Neil keeps a coin in his pocket at all times; the way Neil always breaks plastic silverware, and the look of surprise on his face every time he does.

Andrew knows the way Neil sighs, bone-deep and relieved, when he can unravel at Andrew’s touch. The way Neil tastes on his lips. The way Neil makes soft noises when Andrew drags a hand up his back, over the barely-raised scar. The softness of Neil’s hair on Andrew’s skin.

The point is, Andrew knows that Neil only takes ten minutes in the shower.

Well. Unless Andrew is with him.

Wymack says something to Kevin, but Andrew isn’t listening. His eyes are trained on the locker room and he has the unnerving sense that something is wrong. Not just wrong in a distant sense, either. This is a close terror. A low, crawling burn.

Andrew rises from the couch he sits on and walks toward the locker room. No one notices.

He finds the shower quiet, and empty.

Empty.

“He’s not there,” Andrew says, as soon as he’s back in the lounge. Seth’s head immediately snaps to him, eyes narrowed. He gets up and strides toward the locker room. Andrew ignores him.

Wymack opens his mouth. “What do you mean, he’s not there?”

“Neil is gone,” Andrew repeats. He does not like repeating himself, and those words—

—those words are wrong.

Because if anyone would have disappeared, it would have been Andrew. Not Neil. Not Neil, who promised to stay. Who was real, with the shape of his lips imprinted on Andrew’s mouth and the feel of his fingers still ghosting across Andrew’s skin.

It is wrong. It is all wrong.

“Maybe he’s on the bus,” Nicky says. His voice is strained. “Maybe we didn’t see him, or—”

No, Andrew wants to say. There is no way. Andrew would have seen him. He always sees Neil. He can’t look away. But Andrew moves anyway, toward the exit and the flicker of chance—never hope, he tells himself—that Neil is there. That he is still there—

—and then the Foxes emerge into chaos, and Andrew loses everything when he ducks under someone’s punch and his hands fall on Neil’s keys.

* * *

It is not hard to see where Riko’s influence went. The car Nathaniel is pulled out of is expensive. He barely notices when his feet hit the ground and he is dragged toward the waiting house.

The house. He thought the one in Arizona was bad—with its lingering smoke and death—but this one is worse. Here, he can almost smell the tang of blood.

The bad thing about this, all of this, is that Lola is not Nathan. She never was the best at control, or method. Her impatience always got the best of her. Lola would rather kill someone loudly, messily, and with all the pleasure in the world.

Nathaniel is marched inside—toward the basement.

If he had the presence of mind, he might struggle or scream. He might fight. But Nathaniel takes careful stock as they go; he notes the lack of guards in the house and the available windows and doors. He knows this house intimately, and he also knows Lola. Nathaniel knows her resistance is isolated. He had made sure of it. The only ones in his world—the only ones loyal to the Butcher, now—are intensely scrutinized. This dissident group of rabble that Lola has collected is cobbled together from a handful of old members of the family.

They may be old, but Nathaniel knows better than to think they are out of touch or practice. He keeps an eye on the men that drag him down while he counts. Two take him to the basement; three stay upstairs. He thinks that’s all there is.

“You can’t get out,” Lola says. She sounds amused.

Nathaniel doesn’t give her answer. It would be a waste of breath.

Maybe Lola knows what he thinks, because a sharp flash of hatred cracks her features like lightning. Her hand cracks his face the same way but Nathaniel does not reel. He plants his feet right where they are and faces her head-on.

Lola laughs faintly. Shakes her head, as if amused at something she sees. “You really think you can make it. You always did have his stubbornness.” A snarl twists her lips. “You don’t deserve it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Nathaniel says. He can’t keep his mouth shut; Neil is spilling, desperate, reaching for just one shred of light. One last breath. “Did you think you would be next, when my mother died? How long did you wait, before he shot you down?”

That earns him another punch in the jaw. Nathaniel grounds himself in the copper-sweet blood. He thinks about the last game the Foxes played and how Seth restrained himself from kicking another player when they were at his feet. The impulse was still there, but he stopped, and Neil had given him a small smirk for the effort. Seth flipped him off. There was no venom in it; no hate. Seth had a lot less hate, recently.

He should not think about that. About them—the Foxes. They were never his to hold. He never belonged to them. He was just for Kevin; just for protection and danger. Just for being a threat.

“Do you feel these, yet?” Lola asked. She pressed a thumb into one of the cuts on Nathaniel’s arm. There were burns, too. She had filled every space she could with her marks, up to his sleeve.

Nathaniel didn’t answer. He watched her motions with distant recognition. He would have said no, if he felt like it. Of course, he couldn’t feel them. Nathaniel had been dead for a long time.

A dead flower could not even feel the sun.

“No?”

Nathaniel rolled his head toward her. He could not keep the words in forever. “Is this interrogation, or torture? I guess it doesn’t matter. You are bad at both.”

And Lola shoved her knife up his arm again, while Nathaniel bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

* * *

Dietrich curses in German halfway to the hotel.

Nath—Neil’s people did well. Of course. As they always did. They pulled strings and whispered lies, and the Foxes were ferried across a river of Moriyama-orchestrated destruction.

So, Dietrich is on his way to the place they have been taken. It took him a while, since he was busy doing what Neil told him not to do.

Also, as he always did. Kind of.

He can hear the angry voices from the other side of the closed door. Dietrich sighs—considers his options—and breathes in slowly. He reminds himself that he cannot kill the people on the other side of the door.

Neil would be very, very unhappy.

Dietrich swings the door open and takes stock. The tableau before him, suspended animation, is as he expected. Kevin is backed into a corner. Andrew is in his face, not so short with Kevin pulled down by the collar. Andrew does not notice the intrusion—or, more like, he does not care.

The others are distressed. Various reactions are clear, and Dietrich could almost identify the Foxes by the way they look; Nicky, with tears in his eyes. Allison, her eyes ablaze as she takes in the newcomer.

“Let’s get to it,” Dietrich says. He sees the minute recognition in Nicky’s face; after all, the accent is still there.

Nicky hesitates, but he asks, “Are you—?”

“Yes, and yes. You’re here because of his plan. Let’s hope mine works as well.”

“What plan?” Andrew asks. He doesn’t let go of Kevin’s shirt. They make an amusing picture, Dietrich thinks. Kevin is so tall that it must be uncomfortable to be bent over that way.

Dietrich addresses the room. “Neil had a plan, for when he was taken.”

“Was?” Andrew echoes.

A pause. Dietrich considers his words and then gives up. He is bad at imitating Neil. “You didn’t really think he could get away with this much, did you? He took from the baby bird three times.”

“Three?” Kevin asks. Andrew’s hands tighten on his collar, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Dietrich is starting to feel annoyed at the useless conversation.

“Yes, three. Seth, Jean. Himself.”

“What do you mean?” Andrew asks.

Dietrich itches for a gun. A knife. Anything certain and true that he could simply hold and use. He needs the relief of action; not this game of answers.

This is, of course, his fault. He needs to act because if he stops too long, he starts to think, and that—

—that is dangerous.

“You know,” Dietrich says. He looks to Kevin. “You know what was supposed to happen.”

Apparently, this is all that was needed. Andrew’s hands fly to Kevin’s throat and Dietrich sees what is the culmination of an argument that started long before he entered the room. Dietrich looks over Andrew’s form and thinks to himself that this is the man that managed to hold Neil. That was held back. He can’t really imagine it, but then, he can. That’s the problem.

He can see how they fit. He knows the cracks in Neil and he knows how well they would fit Andrew’s, their jagged edges sliding in place like they aren’t as violent and hurt as they really are.

It is probably enviable. For now, Dietrich is annoyed by it.

Seth and Nicky are at work, trying to pull the two apart. Matt is elbowed. There is a struggle and a mess and Andrew says something low. Kevin pants when they are broken apart and his heaving chest makes his words stutter.

“I didn’t think he knew. I didn’t think it—”

“But you knew,” Andrew says. “And this is part of it.”

Whatever they are arguing about, Dietrich decides he has wasted enough time. “That is enough,” he says, sharp. “He is going to die while you argue about what you should have already said.”

Nicky’s mouth falls open. He might cry, again. Dietrich feels an odd sympathy for him—remembers when Bella was like that; she might still be, a little. Too much care for the world.

“How?” Nicky asks. “Where is he?”

“Baltimore,” Dietrich says. He watches the flicker in Andrew’s eyes. Another secret Neil told, apparently. Dietrich is not surprised. Completely. “Lola has him, with a few others.”

“How do we get him back?” Seth asks. He is business and action. Dietrich likes him already.

Maybe too much. Dietrich looks away and says, “We do not. I do. You are all to stay here—”

“Fuck that—” Matt starts to say.

Dietrich continues, louder. “I went to the FBI.”

Silence. Dead silence. Dietrich thinks he should have started with that. Maybe he could have fit everything in before they reacted. As it is, he rushes through the rest. “I gave them Lola as the Butcher and set Neil up as a victim of his past in a gang. It wasn’t hard. They’ll give him what he needs, if he makes it.”

If. Dietrich is realistic. A stray bullet could do the job, even if Dietrich did his job well. There is no guarantee that Neil will make it out alive.

But he knew that when he said yes, months ago, in Arizona.

“Find him,” Dan says. She has to make herself the voice—the center, Dietrich thinks. She probably has more in common with Neil than either of them realizes. “Find him and bring him back.”

“I intend to.”

* * *

Neil watches the ceiling spiral above him. He has lost blood. His forehead is sticky and his lashes almost stuck together. He hit his head at one point—

—well, Lola hit it. Against the concrete floor. She did it on purpose, right at the deep stain that was never able to be washed out.

He has come apart at the seams. Somewhere in the middle of things, he gave up on forcing himself down, below the surface. If he has this left, he thinks, he wants it to be as Neil. Just so he can think of the Foxes and their closeness. So he can pretend, for a minute, that they are looking for him. That they wait somewhere just beyond the front door, with their smiles and their laughter. He could reach them, if he wanted to. It would just take a few steps.

This is what he tells himself, until his fingers grow cold. Neil knows he doesn’t have much time. He is too broken. He was broken before.

He thinks it’s nice that his pieces were rearranged, before this. That Andrew could assemble Neil into something other, while they were together. Neil can still feel the hands on his back and the breath across his stomach, where Andrew would linger and press his lips. The scars Andrew would trace with a cool finger. Everything came alive with him and now—

—now, in his absence, it will die.

Lola laughs. Says something. Neil spits onto the floor, thick saliva and blood, and hopes some of it hits her. He does not look at anyone or anything, anymore. He has stopped to fill his mind with memories.

He wants to remember Dan’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. Matt’s extended hand, when he was knocked down. Seth telling him he didn’t have to go anywhere. Nicky’s laughter and warmth. Allison patting makeup on his cheek with a careful finger. Renee giving him respectful distance and offering silence. Aaron rolling his eyes in agreement at something his brother did. Kevin’s hopeful eyes and the fire that consumed him. Wymack, whose concern was as deep as it was honest. Abby’s careful hands.

Andrew. Everything about Andrew. Neil wants to take him—the memory of him—right to his death. He wants the last thing he knows to be the feel of Andrew’s lips on his, hands in his hair, cheek pressed against him. Fingers tracing the invisible line down Neil’s body.

Neil wants his last image to be of forest eyes.

Lola drives her knife into Neil’s shoulder, just a little. Just half an inch.

Neil screams. He has spent so long in the basement—he’s not sure how many hours have passed—that he cannot keep it back. It is not as loud as it could be, but it still escapes him. He hates that it does, but he knows how angry Lola is that it took so long. She doesn’t even smile at the sound.

That gives him just a little pleasure.

Lola pulls his head back, fingers yanking at red-brown hair. Neil snarls before he can stop the sound; he has a brief flash of Andrew, careful hands and a little smirk, and Neil will not allow Lola to replace that.

“You are going to fight until you die, aren’t you?” Lola laughs. The sound is bitter; she doesn’t want this. She probably imagined something else, in her dark fantasy. Something where he broke and pleaded for his life.

Neil laughs, bitter. “Always.”

Lola holds his gaze. Her hand gestures and someone moves. Neil occupies himself with staring back into her eyes. If he dies, he wants to haunt her. He wants her to spend the rest of her miserably short life thinking about the way she could not make him bend. He wants her to know, with every Wesninski dead and in the ground, that she was never good enough. Not for any of them.

A block slides between Neil’s feet. He does not look down; he only feels the chair rock beneath him. He wants to tip it over, but he knows his bonds would not break. He would only succeed in making himself look desperate. Neil lets them place the block and watches Lola take a sledgehammer from the corner of the room.

He is afraid.

That is one thing that no one has ever understood. Why fear cannot be eradicated, and why Neil never tried to stop himself from feeling it. It mattered. Fear kept him alive, and it always made him smart. Made him understand risks.

He thinks of Andrew, and how Neil stepped up to Drake without another thought. Why Neil went to take Jean, even when he knew what it would do to Riko and what it would cost. Why Neil let his father die in the first place.

It was always fear. Fear, not for himself, but of what would happen. Fear of being forced to watch someone else burn, the way Mary had.

He never wanted to see something like that, again. Never wanted to watch a slow bleed and feel the sting of smoke and ashes in his eyes.

“Count your seconds,” Lola says softly. “They are the last ones you’ll be able to remember.”

“You can kill someone by doing nothing,” Neil whispers to himself. He does not close his eyes.

He wants to see death when it comes for him. Neil wants to look at the pale face and apologize, for having lived so long. Give thanks for being able to escape.

There is a rush of air and a sudden _bang._ It is not his ankles that are gone. Neil blinks when he feels a familiar wet heat on his face. It is not his blood, this time.

Lola falls to the ground; the sledgehammer thuds heavily. Neil blinks—

—there is something in his chest; a desperate, thin rush of air—

—and then Dietrich walks down the basement stairs.

“Bitch always did talk too much,” he says.

Neil laughs. It sounds wrong. He looks at the two men on the other side of the room; they are frozen, in the aftermath. Bad training. Dietrich swiftly hits them both, gun popping, and Neil feels like he is in a fever dream. He is not entirely sure he didn’t pass out from pain and make the whole scenario up.

Dietrich comes closer. Neil hears footsteps and voices upstairs. “You did what I told you not to, didn’t you,” he says.

“In fairness, you told me not to have them save you. They didn’t.”

“That is not fair, that’s a loophole,” Neil says. His heart is still in his throat and—

—and, vomit. He reels off the chair and throws up on the floor. Dietrich’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing that keeps him steady, but it also sends a lance of pain through his arm. Neil coughs and winces, a gasp of pain caught in his mouth.

Dietrich sounds tense when he speaks. “The FBI think you were a low-level runner. They’ll pin most of Nathan’s work on Lola, so long as we give them what they need for it.”

“What about you?”

“Me,” Dietrich echoes. He laughs, and it sounds rough. “Of course. You have bled half to death, and you think I am the one in danger.”

“Dietrich—”

“I am just a confidante. I know what you know, because of you. They don’t suspect me of anything. I came to them because my friend disappeared, and he told me people were after him,” Dietrich says.

Neil nods once, but it makes him dizzy, so he stops. “Then I tell them. Let’s go.”

Dietrich doesn’t argue, but he does lift Neil. He is surprisingly strong and Neil wonders why he never notices. Dietrich carries him up the stairs and they find a flurry of agents. Neil hears a distant conversation—probably about him—but his ears ring and he feels too light.

It is night. This is the first thing he notices, when they take him outside. Dietrich carries him onto an ambulance and Neil breathes evenly and tries not to think too hard about where he is. There is a hand in his, steady and rough, and it does all it can to keep him grounded.

Neil thinks about Andrew and wonders if the Foxes are okay. He opens his mouth and Dietrich’s small nod is all he needs to know. Neil breathes out, finally, and lets go.

* * *

Andrew waits. He is cuffed to Jean, because the FBI would not accept anything less. They emptied the wing of the hotel and only their plants are still there, pretending to be normal. They aren’t good at it.

He thinks about what might happen. Dietrich could walk through the door, empty-handed, with only blood to show for all his trouble. He could come with Nathaniel, distant and satisfied, and Nathaniel might say his work was done or that he would only stay until the final game.

These thoughts get in the way. Andrew pushes them from his mind and concentrates on reality. The smell of the room and the bruises on the side of Kevin’s neck.

The door opens suddenly, and Andrew rearranges—his entire world centers on that one spot; the empty doorway.

“Slowly,” one of the agents says. “One at a time—”

Except no one gives a fuck, because Nathaniel comes in and he is—

—he is bandaged to hell, pale and ragged; he looks like a piece of paper torn and taped up too many times; he looks like something that was stepped on and folded and unfolded by too many rough hands—

—and Andrew doesn’t give a shit what an FBI agent says. He is up and across the room, dragging Jean. Or maybe Jean comes, too; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

This is Nathaniel. The distance and the pride are there. Calculation. Andrew hates the distance. He wants—

—he wants and that is terrifying, but Andrew still reaches. He reaches out abortively and the FBI agents snaps, “Hey. You’re supposed to—”

“Take them off,” Nathaniel says. His voice is rough. It sounds wrong; like he screamed. He may have screamed, Andrew thinks, and then he considers Neil screaming and no one answering and that—

—the FBI agent says something, and Nathaniel looks him dead in the eye, fingers curled and foot sliding sideways. He is prepared; he is dangerous. He is the Butcher and they are so stupid for not listening to him. “Take them off.”

The agent scowls but he unlocks the cuffs. Gives another warning. Retreats toward the door.

Andrew moves toward Nathaniel. Pulls him by the collar instinctively and tries not to shatter when he sees the way a flicker of pain crosses Nathaniel’s face. That is all Neil. Andrew pulls at the tape on Nathaniel’s neck and finds a cut. Not too bad. He pulls up a piece on Nathaniel’s hand. Burns, worse, and more cuts. Andrew feels bandages, beneath Neil’s hoodie. His hands go to Nathaniel’s face—

—and there, he pulls the gauze away and almost physically recoils. His stomach churns as he stares at the spot; there is no more black ink. Just a mess of burned skin and disaster. Just pain.

Someone gasps and Nicky sniffs. The others are cursing or quiet. Andrew’s fingers hover a distance away from Nathaniel’s face.

“You are stupid,” Andrew says. Someone protests behind him, but he ignores them. He can see Neil, drowning behind Nathaniel, a tiny speck that tries to surface for air. Andrew wants him to reach shore. Needs him to.

Nathaniel speaks to all of them, when he does. “It’s not going to stay quiet. They got information from me and I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Allison says. She sounds just as cool as she always does, but there’s a bruise on her arm and her hands are tight around the edge of the bed she sits on. “We’re not poster children.”

“This is going to follow me,” Nathaniel continues. “I could go into witness protection, I’m told. I could leave and—”

“What do you want to do?” Seth asks. He is quiet, but Andrew hears his question like a gunshot. He wants to strangle Seth, but he also hears what is being asked.

Would Neil even want to stay?

“I—” Nathaniel says, and there—

—there, in the cracks, Andrew sees. He sees, and he pushes, just a little. Gives Neil air to breathe. Lets him claw his way out of his grave.

“I told Neil to stay,” Andrew says. This is a lifetime ago; this is when they were still apart. When Andrew didn’t know how Neil would hold him so carefully. When all Andrew had was frustration and the pull he fought so hard. “Leave Nathaniel where he belongs.”

Leave him in the dust, Andrew doesn’t say. Leave him for the danger that might never come. Nathaniel is necessary, but he is not necessary with Andrew. Not with the Foxes. Not with the life Neil has claimed; fought so hard for, scratched his hands bloody for.

Neil looks at Andrew, those blue eyes that struck Andrew from the moment he saw them. The chill that was there is gone. He is all spring; the promise of something new and the lingering fear that it could all be a lie. The uneasiness of one held too close to the coldness.

“Do you—” Neil stops. His tongue flies over his lips and his hands shake a little, where they cling to the front of Andrew’s shirt. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Can I?”

“Yes.” It’s all he needs to say.

* * *

They are left alone in the room because Abby wants to look after the others and Wymack is glaring at FBI agents while he goes to find food.

Andrew traces the lines of the bandage on Neil’s face. The room is quiet. There is something right about the silence that Andrew never liked before. He filled the space with music—loud—because he could not stand the thoughts of a quiet room. Now—

—now, he finds Neil. Fills the spaces with Neil’s hair under his hand; his knee against Andrew’s leg.

“You didn’t tell me,” Andrew says. There is no accusation.

Neil breathes out. His breath flutters against Andrew’s forehead, shifts his hair. “No.”

Not now, then. Andrew tries again. “Why didn’t you leave?”

“Did you want me to?”

“That’s not how the game works.” There is no teasing in Andrew’s reply. No sharpness. He is too close to what he almost lost.

Neil shuffles closer. His fingers trace down Andrew’s arms. They leave little bumps in their wake. “This is not a game.”

“This is—”

He can’t say nothing. He can’t. He might have said it once before, but he can’t, now. It isn’t true. It is not the truth and Andrew will not give Neil lies. Not after everything.

“This is important,” Neil finishes, in a whisper. “This means something.”

Neil’s nose brushes against Andrew’s. Their skin is electric. It charges the air with something enticing. Andrew has Neil flush against his soul and he cannot pull them apart. It hurt too much to think he lost and now, with Neil open and ready to stay, Andrew thinks it might kill him.

Andrew tilts his head. Neil moves against him, opposite and easy. They are familiar with each other; almost more than with themselves. Andrew could trace the scars of Neil’s skin onto a piece of paper, perfect recall or no.

Neil hesitates. He always does, a little, before they kiss. Like he wants to wait for Andrew to finally pull away. It only means that Andrew kisses him deeper, sweet and heavy, with one of his hands curling around Neil’s jaw. They are held in place by need and numbing comfort.

Neil is better than any drug that Andrew has been fed. Safer. With Neil, he can ask for clear-headedness, or he can lose himself in sensation. Andrew does not fear being directionless, when Neil is the one he wanders with. With Neil’s hand on his chest or the flutter of his eyelashes, there is always something to come back to. A way to find up.

A low thump echoes next door. It is nothing pressing, but it draws them apart and into reality. Neil’s eyelids are heavy, and Andrew loves the way they look. Loves the way Neil is flushed and soft. Their foreheads rest together and Andrew thinks he might spend an eternity searching Neil’s face. There are so many secrets there—so many things Neil has told him, with trust and a fluttering kind of hope.

“I thought about you,” Neil says.

Andrew’s hand flies up. He almost stops Neil—almost presses a hand to his mouth—because he thinks he can’t hear it. He is only so close to disaster. Andrew can only feel so much at once. He is raw.

But he doesn’t make Neil stop. It might be the masochist in him, or that new thing that just likes to hear Neil talk and say things Andrew told himself he would never want.

Neil finds Andrew’s chin with his hand. Traces a thumb along his lower lip. “I wanted you to be the last thing I remembered.” Neil closes his eyes. “You were always the first.”

How is he supposed to answer that? What is he supposed to do? Andrew only knows that he feels—

—he feels so much that he almost thinks he is medicated, again. But Neil is not sharp or painful; he could never be, and Andrew knows that. He knows that this clarity of feeling is not painful. Everything in his chest—the curling pleasure, the warmth of certainty, the steady adoration—is right.

“First,” Andrew says. He mirrors Neil; finds his mouth and traces it.

“Last,” Neil says. Jokes, even through the lingering pain he must still feel.

Andrew leans in. Finds the space between Neil’s neck and shoulder, to rest his head and inhale. He can see freckles on Neil’s skin. Hears the gentle whisper of Neil’s breath. He can feel the softness of his skin and smell the faint salt of sweat. Andrew presses his lips to the spot, just to remember what Neil is like against his tongue.

Neil’s hand curls on Andrew’s arm. It holds him, pleased and inquiring. Asking permission. As if Neil needs permission to know what Andrew is telling him so obviously.

Andrew wonders why—how he ended up loving someone like Neil. How he loved at all.

“You need a shower,” Andrew finally says. He doesn’t mean it to be humorous or break the silence. Except it does, and Andrew likes the small huff of breath that escapes Neil’s mouth.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll help.”

Neil smiles a little. He seems tired; more tired than he’s ever been—but Andrew notes the life, there. The joy held in the depths of his blue eyes. “Okay,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andreil! Now featuring more Andrew, because his difficult POV needs some love. God, I hope I did it justice.
> 
> This has been...a trip. I hope I struck the right balance. I didn't want to focus too much on the torture, here—it was more about Andrew and Neil and how they both dealt with the potential of losing what they had forever. Obviously, Neil had the Foxes to think about, but Andrew found a lot in Neil. Also, I would argue that Butcher!Nathaniel would feel way less deserving and accepting of the Foxes, even after helping them. Like, martyr Neil would be at a whole other level.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this installment! This story is coming to a close and I appreciate every one of you. As always, read/review/share and let me know what you think.


	9. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil takes a moment with Andrew, but moments don't last long when an angry Moriyama is after the Foxes. With the last game just hours away, Neil could worry. Instead, he feels. It's nice to be able to, for the first time.

The week that leads up to the game is a constant string of revelry. Every day, there’s something new. Palmetto has never been so close to something so huge, and they make a point to throw all their energy into celebration. It feels a little premature to Neil, but he can’t speak against it.

After all, he was supposed to die. There is a lingering sensation like a phantom limb that says he still might.

“I’m hungry,” Nicky announces from the floor. It’s a cold night and everyone is in one room, where Matt fiddles with the television and gathers up a pile of movies to pick from.

Allison rolls her eyes. “So, eat.”

“But I kind of want to pick something up,” Nicky says. His nose wrinkles a little. “Or order. Do you think they’d make it—”

“You can’t order,” Kevin says, matter-of-fact. “There’s no way they’d get through campus.”

“It’s not that bad, drama queen.” Nicky scoffs. He’s already unfolding his legs from beneath him.

Neil isn’t paying much attention. He sits at the foot of the beanbag Andrew occupies and tries not to look back. Except Neil is hyperaware of Andrew’s leg by his shoulder and the fingers that brush against his nape, where no one can see. He distantly wonders if Andrew is purposely torturing him and decides it doesn’t matter. Neil is going crazy. It’s all he can do to keep his face from overheating.

“—you?”

Neil blinks. “What.”

Nicky frowns a little. Seems vaguely worried, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for when his gaze examines Neil. “I said, what about you? Do you want something? I’m going to order and pick it up at the entrance.”

“Sure,” Neil says, because he is hungry but also because Andrew would never say he wants fries for his ice cream.

Nicky passes his phone and Neil has to learn how to navigate the app Nicky uses. A few minutes later, the food is ordered and Allison sighs. “I’m going to shower while we wait.”

“You couldn’t have ordered before?” Seth asks Nicky. There is only the smallest hint of annoyance in his voice. There is no slur and no heat. Neil thinks Seth is different, but not by much. Just in the ways that matter.

The bickering is good-natured. Neil tunes it out and leans back into the beanbag behind him—and, consequently, Andrew’s legs.

“What.”

Neil feels a hopeless smile move his lips. “Nothing. What?”

A huff. Annoyance, but not at Neil. At the situation. Neil wonders if Andrew would rather be on the roof. Or in his room. The idea makes Neil’s heart race just a little faster. They are in Neil’s dorm, so he doesn’t have a reason to leave, but…

Neil pulls a box of cigarettes out from his pocket. They usually just sit there—Andrew has his own, and they were a secret just for Neil—so the box almost full. Neil looks to Nicky and lifts his hand. “Text me. I’ll walk with you.”

“Text?” Nicky feigns shock. “The Neil I know doesn’t even know what a phone looks like!”

Neil gathers himself from the floor and ignores Kevin’s disapproving glance at the cigarettes. He doesn’t really care what Kevin assumes he’s going to do.

Andrew follows Neil. He makes no point in hiding what he’s doing, and no one seems to think twice about it. Not that Neil can really tell, because his back is turned and he’s not the best with people. But no one stops them.

Neil is halfway toward the door to the roof when Andrew’s hand is at the small of his back. Even the tiny press and redirection makes his pulse erratic. Neil wordlessly follows Andrew into his room and barely hears the door lock behind him.

“Do you—” Neil starts, about to ask after cigarettes and rooftops, but he can’t speak. Andrew has decided to occupy his mouth with other, more pleasant things.

Andrew is unhurried when they kiss. There are people waiting and food arriving, but Andrew could not care less. He is methodical in the way he takes Neil apart with his mouth; by now, Andrew knows what to do to get what he wants. Apparently, he wants Neil moaning, because that’s what happens. Neil is a flurry of heat and dizzy attraction, and Andrew holds him up where they stand.

It is too easy to forget. Alone, there is nothing Neil cares about the way he cares about Andrew. The hands that slide under Neil’s shirt may find the occasional bandage, but that doesn’t matter. They have both navigated enough disasters to be practiced. Andrew finds every weak point on Neil’s body and pushes, just a little, so Neil falls apart like the poorly assembled front that he is. Every inch of his mask falls to pieces.

“Where?” Neil asks. He can barely get the word out between Andrew’s kiss and the moment he leans back to pull at Neil’s shirt.

Andrew discards the shirt carelessly. “Waist up.”

Good. So very good. Neil wants to say thank you—he always does, with Andrew—but he thinks Andrew would not appreciate it, right now. Instead, Neil keeps his mouth shut and runs his palm up from Andrew’s stomach, to his collarbone. The firmness of muscle and soft glide of skin is just as good as the low noise that Andrew holds in his throat. Neil smiles a little and Andrew gives him an annoyed look. Like he can’t believe Neil can do what he does. Like he wants to be mad about it, but he can’t.

Neil is reminded of something. A knife pressed to his palm. A reminder. _You hold the world in your hands._ It was meant as a warning. A threat. It was meant for Nathaniel and his future.

So, Neil has to change it. He holds his hands up and threads his fingers through Andrew’s hair. Feels the smooth planes of Andrew’s cheeks with his thumbs. Andrew’s eyelids fall a little, as if prompted by the touch. His eyes are more brown than green. He is heaviness and certainty.

“I have the world in my hands,” Neil says. He didn’t think about it when he opened his mouth, but it comes out.

Andrew’s hands stop on Neil’s chest. The fingers twitch abortively, as if they wanted to grab something. Neil watches the sharpness in the way Andrew’s pupils dilate. The vague parting of his lips. Neil looks and finds that in a way, he is not wrong. There is earth in Andrew’s eyes. Sky in his hair. The ocean of his skin, with salt and something else more special.

“I can’t—” Andrew starts, but he stops.

What does he want to say? I can’t answer. I can’t say the same thing. I can’t accept that. Whatever it is, Neil knows he can’t change it. Not yet. But it will change, the same way Andrew changed. The way he started with drugs and ended up sober at Neil’s mouth, to find some other kind of drug there.

“Don’t have to,” Neil says simply. He leans in and stops just short. Feels the heat of Andrew’s breath on his mouth. And, because he needs to, Neil starts to ask, “Was that—"

“Good,” Andrew admits. It is strained, but it’s the truth. He leans in to bridge the bare distance between them, and Neil closes his eyes.

It was true, Neil decides. Andrew really is the world. He is just as beautiful and unexpected and sometimes horrifying to think about. Heartbreaking. Neil loves that about Andrew—loves all the facets, even the sharp ones that cut him—and he tries to say that with his kiss.

Andrew is halfway down Neil’s body before Neil realizes what’s happening. He blinks, and his heart is in his throat because there is no way to prepare for the sight of the pale head that lingers near his stomach.

“Wait—” Neil says, suddenly. He worries, because of course, he does.

Andrew looks up. His hands are on Neil’s hips, steady weight. “No?”

“Not me,” Neil says. He struggles for words and can only come up with, “You. You don’t have to—I just meant—”

He didn’t mean to make this happen. Still doesn’t mean for it to. Nathaniel is the one that speaks for a purpose. Neil—Neil can never find the words he needs. Sometimes says the wrong ones. He says what he thinks and what he thinks he should say, but he doesn’t try to take what he wants. He doesn’t try to make someone else think they have to give.

Andrew’s finger traces over the bone. Neil feels a shiver run up his spine. Andrew notes the movement and asks, “Yes or no?”

He doesn’t say he wants to, but he doesn’t say no. Still. Neil echoes his question. “Yes or no?”

Andrew looks up at Neil. There is a new look on his face. A contemplation. “Yes.”

“Yes.”

Andrew really doesn’t waste time. He pulls away Neil’s sweatpants and underwear without another word and then his mouth finds Neil. Andrew presses a hot kiss just on Neil’s hip, promising. Neil vaguely remembers a moment, on the bus—

— _Why do you like me? I hate you. No, you don’t. I do, but I would blow you._

Neil almost laughs. Almost asks if Andrew is just trying to prove a point because he’s stubborn and smug. Neil almost does, but then he feels Andrew’s hand on him and remembers that he forgot how good it felt. He wonders what rules still apply, like this—

—decides it is very hard to think—

—and ends up with one hand on the side of Andrew’s head, just to feel the soft hair. There is only a brief pause when Andrew feels it, but more than allow it, he leans into the touch.

Neil is somewhere over the moon. Andrew’s mouth is on him and then a string of incomprehensible thoughts and sensations flood Neil all at once—

—among them, good, great, warm, what—

—and it’s really too much—

—so, Neil just lets a tiny moan escape and finds his pulse skyrocket right alongside his temperature. He is strung out to perfection by just how much he feels at once.

Someone else might care about what he does or how long they are there, but Neil really only cares that Andrew is like this. That he is willing and comfortable. Neil is hit with a wave of overwhelming pleasure just when Andrew’s hands press into his legs. They could brand him with the heat.

Neil’s heart still races out of control while he tries to remember to stand. Andrew is back at his mouth as if he never left, warm and pliant. Neil tries to catch his breath and starts to say, “If you want me to le—”

“No,” Andrew says, low. One of his hands is still on Neil’s hip, but the other is gone. He tries to capture Neil’s lips again and after a second, his lips stutter.

Somewhere in the middle, Neil realizes that Andrew is touching himself. It’s an oh and an _oh_ , and then Neil tries to keep his eyes away and focus on doing half the work for Andrew. He finds all the places in Andrew’s mouth that he loves, pulls at his lip with careful teeth. When Andrew can’t keep up, Neil buries his face by Andrew’s neck and works the skin there. He tries not to be harsh, but he thinks it’s impossible not to leave a mark on Andrew’s pale skin.

The sound Andrew makes when he finishes is branded on Neil’s memory. Even the faintest indications—the catch of his breath, the sudden clench of his fingers on Neil’s hip—are more than enough. Neil can’t even think that there could be something more than this.

Andrew breathes into Neil’s chest. His hair tickles a little and his nails scratch at Neil’s skin a little, absentminded.

Neil’s phone buzzes.

“Good luck,” Andrew says. It comes out flat, but Neil knows the pace of the words and the little smirk in the corner of Andrew’s mouth.

Neil gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t have to explain to the others. I’ll be fine the moment I step outside.”

He would say something about the smell and a shower, but Andrew just prods his cheek and Neil manages to right himself before he leaves the room. He lights a cigarette on the way, the smoke curled around his shoulders to remind of him of Andrew as he walks. Nicky is at the stairs to the dorms, phone in hand. He looks up and smiles when he sees Neil.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t,” Neil says. He holds the cigarette by his shoulder.

The campus is just as rowdy as the other said it would be. There are students everywhere; Neil wonders what the hell is going on. He smells faint smoke and it distantly brings back bad memories; they’re easily replaced with the cigarette at his side.

Nicky hums, out of nowhere. There’s a twisted look on his face—like he thinks he shouldn’t say what he’s about to—and then he says, “You know. About, um. Andrew. I…probably don’t have to tell you to be careful.”

“He can’t hurt me,” Neil says. Lie. Half-lie. He and Andrew are probably on even footing, physically. Neil just has protection, too.

And Andrew could hurt him, if he just left. But Neil doesn’t want to think about that.

Nicky shrugs. “I mean, you gotta prep. Anything hurts without prep.”

Neil stumbles. Literally trips a little.

He suddenly realizes Nicky is not being as pessimistic as he originally thought, and Neil also realizes that Nicky is being infinitely more open with his warnings.

“Wh—I—”

“If you have already, at least tell me you used a condom. Please. For the love of God. Please tell me the mafia at least taught you that?” Nicky winces. Neil feels the same.

Neil tries to suck in a breath. “Nicky,” he finally says. “No.”

Nicky snorts. Shakes his head, but he is smiling. “You say that now, but I’m not blind. We are not blind, barring Kevin and Matt’s perpetual denial. I mean, I know you two have made out. It’s hard to hide the way you look blissed-out after you come down from the _roof_.”

Nicky says roof like there’s something wrong with it. Neil frowns.

Someone calls out to them and Nicky is distracted by paying the delivery guy. They chat because it’s Nicky, and then Neil follows Nicky back to the dorms. He is overwhelmingly glad that the conversation is over. Neil has never been really embarrassed by much—being in a gang doesn’t leave room for such weaknesses—but he feels pretty close, after Nicky’s conversation.

Of course, when they get to the door, Nicky makes a small noise of realization. He remembers and says, with absolutely no shame, “It’s kinda hard to hide the smell of sex. So, you know, plan your time. Or look into some body spray.”

Neil has had a lot of firsts, with the Foxes. It figures he’d experience absolute mortification for the first time with them, too.

* * *

It is late when the movie ends. Neil curls his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees. Matt yawns and says something to Dan. They’re all too wired on soda and junk food to sit still; Allison says something about going out with Renee and Neil assumes they are going to brave the jungle that the campus has become.

They are all in various states of relaxation when someone pounds on the door. Nicky frowns from his upside-down pose on the couch and Neil sighs to get up and answer it.

The moment he opens the door, he knows something is off. He reaches for his phone before Katelyn even starts to talk.

“I can’t find Aaron,” she says.

Andrew is measured when he gets up from his chair, but he looks three seconds from snapping. “Where were you and why did you leave?”

“We—we were at a party,” Katelyn says. She subconsciously takes a step back. “I lost track of him and I don’t know what—it was so fast, I—”

Neil holds up a finger and the entire room goes silent. He would be pleased, if it weren’t so serious.

“Yes?” Dietrich answers.

“Who has eyes on Aaron?”

A pause. Dietrich shuffles. “Bella.”

Now, it is Neil’s turn to pause. His hand tightens on his phone and his hand reflexively clenches. He—

—he has to take a minute and silently ask for forgiveness. He hopes Andrew knows.

Nathaniel, brisk, says, “Why.”

“She was here for your regular business. Rachel is holding down the fort in Baltimore. Bella noticed the parties and was on standby. We didn’t expect you all to split up.”

There are more questions, for later. Nathaniel bends down and checks his shoelaces as he talks. He has a knife in his pocket that he tests, just in case. “I need eyes and ears. If anyone so much as whispers his name, I will know about it.”

“You will.”

“Good. I am going to canvas. Keep eyes on the dorms. The others are not to move.”

There are protests in the room that Nathaniel ignores. Dietrich just says, “Of course. I’ll contact you.”

Nathaniel hangs up and points his blade—a butterfly knife, folded closed—at Katelyn. “You are going to take me where you were,” he says. “And I am going to find him.”

She doesn’t even say anything. She just turns on her heel. Andrew moves with Nathaniel and before he can say anything, Kevin is with them.

“The others can stay,” Kevin says. He does not explain why he’s coming—if it’s want or need—but Nathaniel doesn’t care. He only cares about his control of the situation.

Nathaniel stares evenly at Kevin. “If you come, you stay quiet and you do not question anything you see. Understand?”

Kevin just lifts his chin. Nathaniel almost rolls his eyes.

Almost.

But, he’s a professional, so he just keeps walking. Katelyn takes them to a block of apartments across campus and Nathaniel smells the smoke, thicker this time. He wonders what happened. Distantly thinks that if Bella lost Aaron, they won’t get him back. If she didn’t, though…

…well. They are probably in the middle of a fight.

There is a trail near the dorms. It leads away, toward trees and the edge of campus. Nathaniel immediately makes a beeline for it and Katelyn pauses. “Wait,” she says. “If we’re going in there, shouldn’t we—”

“Do not tell me wait,” Andrew says. There is a tendril of danger in his voice. Nathaniel directs him back with a warning hand.

Katelyn swallows. Nathaniel looks toward the distant glow of fire. “There is someone there that will watch you. Stay on the edge of the crowd. Do not move until someone gets you.”

“Fine. Find him,” Katelyn says, firm. She stares at Nathaniel in a way that probably means she is trying to be hard, but nothing works on Nathaniel. Not anymore.

The woods are quiet. Nathaniel takes the path and only five minutes in, he can hear noises. He flicks his blade open and silently lifts a finger to his lips. Nathaniel looks directly at Kevin and says, voice low, “Do not step in. Wait, and when you can, take Aaron. Run.”

“I don’t have to,” Kevin says. He can fight, he doesn’t say.

Nathaniel almost smiles. “You know how to run. Do it.”

He leaves it there. He has no time. Nathaniel steps around the bend in the trail before them and finds what he expected—three men, varyingly upright. Aaron further back, something like a branch or broom handle in hand. Bella stands with messy hair, her jacket askew, and blood on her face. She is smiling when he sees her and licking away a streak of red on her lip.

“Hard times,” Bella says—not to the attackers, but to Neil. She shrugs; a half-assed apology for not telling him she was in town. There would have been no need to, of course, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it was.

“I don’t know why I try,” Nathaniel mutters. Bella smiles. The men in the clearing didn’t even see him; Nathaniel comes up behind one easily and kicks the back of his knees.

Nathaniel is efficient with his takedown. A good crippling and chokehold usually does the trick. Bloodless and simple. Somewhere else, he thinks Andrew is occupied. Bella has the third man down much faster, with her attention focused on him. Nathaniel has always known she was just a little slower than him—she is taller and weighs more—but what she lacks in speed, she makes up for in sheer endurance. Nathaniel can tell from the state of the men that they were going at it for some time before he showed up.

It isn’t as hard as it could have been to get the men down. Nathaniel watches Bella push her hair back from her face and pile it on top of her head. When she crouches to shove a man over, her kind-of bun bounces.

“Riko,” she says, matter-of-fact. She sniffs and brushes away blood from under her nose as if it’s a mild irritant. To her, it is. “He’s getting sloppy.”

“He is sloppy,” Nathaniel corrects. He checks all the men; Bella tosses plastic zip ties to him as he goes, and he slides them on the men. “What’s the story?”

Bella straightens a little, even in her awkward crouching position while she works zip ties onto a man twice her size. Instinct and routine kick in. “I was watching this one at the party. He stepped out of the house and they came up. He went quietly, so I came along. They argued about whether they had the right guy. It was the gun that made me give up on watching.”

“Gun,” Nathaniel echoes.

Bella jerks her head toward the path behind her. “Easy disarm. Got the ammo in my pocket.”

“Good.”

“Want me to make a billboard?” Bella asks. She sniffs again and wipes at more blood. “Or pay return postage?”

Nathaniel gestures with his hand—an up motion—and Bella finally stands. He takes stock of the injuries; cut on the cheek, possible bruise on her shoulder, hidden by the jacket. Some cuts on her jeans, but he can’t tell if there’s blood. There must be.

“Go back to Baltimore. That’s where I need you,” Nathaniel says. He thinks, belatedly, that Seth would probably like her. They would get along. “Dietrich will take care of these.”

“He has all the fun.”

“Now you know how I feel all the time.”

Bella snorts. “Not quite.” She shakes her head and digs the ammunition from her pocket. “Here. May want to give that to one of them.”

“We don’t use guns,” Nathaniel reminds her. She smiles faintly at the reminder, in a way that says she probably just wanted to hear it.

“We’re smarter than that,” Bella finishes. She wipes at her nose one last time and finally looks at Kevin. Nathaniel watches the exchange, amused and interested.

Kevin seems the most uncertain Nathaniel has ever seen him. It is almost funny. Kevin just coughs a little and waves a hand vaguely at Bella’s face. “You have. Um.”

Bella snorts. “Cute. Thanks.”

At least Neil has the pleasure of seeing Kevin’s furious blush, for the first time. It’s a very welcome sight.

* * *

Last game. Two words, and Neil isn’t sure how to feel.

He settles on ready. Andrew has come to a few practices, since the night Aaron went missing. It was surreal, to see him step onto the court and move when it wasn’t required of him. Neil has started to miss one in ten shots because he’s too distracted by the way Andrew moves.

When finals roll around, the feeling is even heavier. Neil is acutely aware of what is at stake and he thinks he should probably take some time to himself.

Instead, he goes to class in the morning.

This is how he finds himself on the sidewalk, with an eyeful of Ichirou Moriyama and the knowledge that he might not make it to the final. The man turns on his heel and Nathaniel follows, because it is proper. There are rules and expectations that must be met.

Ichirou slides into a black car and Nathaniel leaves his backpack on the ground outside. It is clear defiance; evidence, if it needs to be. Nathaniel crosses his legs neatly and is annoyed that this couldn’t happen formally.

“I am sure you are aware that there are changes happening within my family,” Ichirou starts.

Nathaniel does not answer. It’s not a question that needs answering. They both know just how much Nathaniel knows and how. They also both know that this meeting could go in two widely different directions.

After all, Nathaniel is the shadow. He keeps secrets the way the Moriyamas keep abused teenagers.

That, Nathaniel does not say.

“It has come to my attention that some of Riko’s…maneuvers, have intruded upon your business.”

“They have,” Nathaniel agrees. Because he is a punk and feels like he can get away with it, he says, “I am surprised, I confess, that it was not your uncle that came to speak with me. He is in charge of Riko, is he not, my Lord?”

Ichirou shifts in his seat. Nathaniel anticipates everything—a gun, a knife, jazz hands—and what he gets is Ichirou waving lazily. As lazily as a tiger with its prey. “We are here to discuss your business relationship. You are not connected the way your predecessor was.”

“No,” Nathaniel agrees. “And my kingdom has been compromised. Riko’s meddling brought the FBI down on one of my best, who has been integral to long-standing business between our families.”

Nathaniel is glad Lola is dead, but if he can get something out of her death, he will. Ichirou’s eyes narrow and he shifts again, barely noticeable. He did not know, Nathaniel suspects. It is an opening—a chink in the armor that Nathaniel can push.

“I will not pursue further business with your family, my Lord,” Nathaniel says. May as well go all the way, he thinks. “With respect…Riko is volatile and disorganized. His imagined plans tend to cause quite a mess. I have done my best to preserve the integrity of all involved parties, but this is not my contract.”

Ichirou lifts a hand. This time, it is a signal. Nathaniel watches the window roll down slightly and papers are passed through the crack. The man slides them to Nathaniel, quiet.

“Compensation for lost property is required, of course. And in return, a gesture of goodwill. Riko and Tetsuji will be dealt with.”

“Familiar words,” Nathaniel says, but he folds the papers and slides them into his hoodie as if it were just the same as his white suit.

Ichirou looks tempted, for a moment. As if he sees that Nathaniel is vulnerable and could be killed. But Ichirou is not his brother; he knows well enough that every move has a consequence. He does not know who would rise in Nathaniel’s place and he does not know what the war would be.

So, Ichirou accepts that Nathaniel is not Nathan. He accepts some resistance and chastising from a nineteen-year-old, in the name of business.

This is why Nathaniel likes Ichirou better than his brother.

The car door opens, and Neil is left on the sidewalk with his backpack. He wonders what comes next—a part, maybe, or Kevin and Jean cheerily throwing their contracts into a fire—but Neil thinks that’s a little optimistic.

What he gets instead is Andrew, who has appeared just to shove Neil behind a building. The movement is more protective than angry. “What was that?”

“Business,” Neil says, surprised. He thinks Andrew should be at the dorm. He doesn’t have class. “What are you doing here?”

“Business, how?”

“Ichirou.”

Andrew’s jaw tightens. He glares after the car like he could shoot it with his eyes. Neil half expects it to happen.

Neil redirects his attention. Raises his hands to trace the backs of Andrew’s and stops when they jerk in surprise. Andrew looks back to Neil and considers him, quiet. “And?”

“The other two are done,” Neil says. He presses, again. “What are you doing here?”

Andrew steps closer and their proximity becomes something different; not hiding, but intimate. Knowing. Neil feels his breath catch in his throat. Andrew’s voice is almost a whisper when he says, “You know.”

 _Looking for you,_ he doesn’t say. Neil doesn’t need to hear it. He only needs the kiss that Andrew presses to his lips, and the warmth that blossoms there. Ichirou doesn’t matter. The car, the contracts, the game that is only a few hours away. None of it really matters to Neil, because the sun makes Andrew’s pale colors shine like a star. He is bright, and Neil just basks in the warmth of him and the light of day.

Nothing is as good as Andrew’s touch, or the way he kisses Neil like they are alone in the world together. It is perfect, Andrew is perfect, and Neil doesn’t want to move.

So, for a few minutes, he just doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of planned for this to be the 'final game' chapter, but I got distracted by Andreil and shenanigans. Anyway! I might actually change my upload schedule to every 5 days instead of every 3...I've been having a struggle with everything at the moment and I am definitely not making enough money to just live, lol. Hopefully, things get a little better this month.  
> Please enjoy! As always, comment/share. I love your ideas and comments so much! As a treat, I'll mention here that my next fic will probably be short, but I'm working on a long one that will be...high magic...so I hope you enjoy that!  
> *EDIT!* Guys i fUckeD uP IM SOrRy  
> I had started to lead into the next bit and forgot to cut the chapter right, RIP me, sorry to everyone who thought it was a weird cliffhanger :)) Guh. this is what happens when you have no beta reader


	10. Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil did not plan for after. Luckily, he has the Foxes. Andrew. After seems to find him, and for once, he thinks he might actually be on his way to happy.

He did not expect for it to end the way it did.

Neil knew he shouldn’t have had any expectations. That didn’t make it easier to stop them, though. When the game started, there was a lingering suspicion at the back of his mind that something would go wrong—not because of any of the Foxes, but because nothing went right when it came to Neil’s experience. He half-expected Lola to show up, a bloody grimace-smile and laughter on her lips.

Instead, Kevin used his formerly-injured hand and kicked Riko’s ass, alongside the rest of the team.

The Foxes were just one ahead. Just the smallest margin, as the time ticked away, and the Ravens grew desperate. Neil watched the Ravens sprint across the court and then—

—then, Kevin slammed home one last goal as the timer buzzed and the crowd began to roar.

Neil breathed in, out. Blinked past the burning lights of the stadium. He stood across from Riko on the court, where he had pushed him into a corner for Kevin to score. Riko’s eyes were pits of anger and horror; he had the face of a man that new his end had come.

It was worse than a bad idea to push Riko, but Neil was nothing but a string of bad ideas.

“I would pity you,” Neil says. “But you are a second son of greater men. You were made to bow, long before you made the mistake of crossing me. Only now, everyone else can see just what a worthless piece of shit you are. Can you smell the shit on your knees, now?”

It’s what says, even though Neil is the one who rests on one knee, his breath thin in his chest. He doesn’t care. They both know who is really on the ground, now.

Neil catches the shift in Riko’s expression. The way he twitches and starts to move. His hand lifts and Neil thinks, _of course, it had to happen_ , but then—

—then, he’s wrong. Neil is wrong, because Jean has crossed the court. Jean, who came with Jeremy just to watch, saw. He knew, because of course, he did. He is the child he was before the Moriyamas took him, and maybe that makes him vulnerable, but what he has lost in experience, he gains in determination. In courage.

Jean is across the court before Riko’s swing is halfway to Neil; he intercepts the blow easily, taller than Riko and stronger. Stronger, now that he has left. Jean grabs Riko’s arm and shoves him back. Neil has the absolute pleasure of watching the way Riko’s vicious look of blind fury emerges, before Riko stumbles backward and a referee storms the court.

There are voices and shouts. Screaming. People are yelling at Riko—at the one that was the so-called king. He has fallen so far, and his crown lies somewhere on the ground where he was knocked down.

Neil looks up to see Jean. His flicker of uncertainty and fear; the gut reaction that something would go wrong. Punish him.

“Thank you,” Neil says. He tries to pull Jean back and somehow, it works. He watches Jean turn to him and offer a hand.

“It was my turn.”

Neil laughs, a little. Short and amused. He lets the moment go and then feels Andrew’s hand on his neck. Knows the heartbeat pressed against his back. “That was stupid.”

“How do you know I said something?” Neil asks. He smiles a little as he turns. Finds himself floored by Andrew, because he can’t really decipher what it is he feels.

How this is over, now, and they are still there. They are both still standing. Whole.

More than whole.

Andrew presses a thumb to Neil’s cheek. Just below the scars, where the number used to be. “Because you always say something.”

“You’re not wrong,” Neil says. He wants—

—he wants, suddenly, to kiss Andrew. Needs to hold him. Expects that this moment is going to be fleeting and he needs to crystallize it. Make a memory that will last.

He doesn’t, because they are in a crowded stadium and even the team around them does not hide them from the prying eyes. So, Neil just curls his hand around Andrew’s stick, just above where Andrew’s hand is. Shared space. They are so close to the locker rooms, and Neil wants to take those three steps into the shadow and Andrew’s waiting arms.

“I think someone wants to see you,” Nicky says. His voice is tight.

“Fuck that,” Seth says. His low growl catches Neil’s attention enough to drag his eyes away from Andrew.

Ichirou is coming their way.

“Let me,” Neil says quietly. Moves toward Matt and Seth, who stand before him.

Matt looks incredulous. “No. No; you don’t know what they’re going to do—”

“I have an idea,” Neil says. “And we have an arrangement.”

“This isn’t safe.” Matt glares at Ichirou.

“None of this has been safe,” Neil says. He smiles a little, twisted and half-sarcastic. “My job is done. You won. I have to go.”

“You don’t.”

It’s Kevin. Kevin says this and Neil wonders when he stepped into an alternate reality.

It doesn’t make sense.

Kevin, of all people, would know. He would take it as business. He came to Neil for business and didn’t expect anything more. Yet he still says to stay, without really saying it, and Neil doesn’t know how to answer that. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

“I thought I said to stay,” Andrew says, quiet. He is so quiet that no one else might hear him; Neil doesn’t care. What matters is that he hears, and he knows.

But.

But, Neil has to. He needs to see this thing finished and done.

“I’ll be right back,” Neil says. Shoulders carefully out from between Matt and Seth. He takes care to brush their arms on the way out, reassuring. He doesn’t need to say anything else to anyone.

He’s going to come back.

Neil follows Ichirou to the Moriyamas’ private box. There’s still sweat on his forehead from the game and his limbs are shaky and sore; he is starting to fall down, off the high of adrenaline. Only his willpower keeps it steady while he counts down the steps and counts up all the possible outcomes where he doesn’t make it out alive.

He just keeps thinking about Andrew’s hand on his neck, the smoke on the roof—

—and then he tells himself to stop, because that is not what he needs. He needs Nathaniel, but Neil is too stuck in the game; too deep in thoughts of his team, waiting just feet away—

—and he can’t untangle himself from them—

—not even when he sees the gun in Ichirou’s hand and the way Riko walks into the room from a back door.

Not even when Ichirou says, “Kneel.”

Neil wants to laugh. It sounds like his name and he almost thinks it is; that he is meant to step forward to do something terrible. Or to die. But instead, Riko forces himself to the ground like he’s done so many times. Neil watches him, because he cannot look away. If he looks away—

—he looked away from Lola, too—

—then it isn’t true. Can’t be. He has to see every bloody moment, because how else will he know? How else would any of it make sense?

And maybe Nathan is in his ear, telling him _you have to see to know,_ and maybe it’s a lie, but Neil does it anyway.

Ichirou doesn’t say anything. Nothing, and that’s what gets Neil. There are no words to be wasted on a failure and embarrassment. There is only silence and certainty, and then—

—then—

—he doesn’t quite hear it. He sees it. Sees the reaction; the way the body hits the floor. Because the thing on the floor _doesn’t have a name, Nathaniel, it’s just a sack of blood and bone._ _Just another piece of meat._ So, Neil looks and looks until his eyes burn, and Ichirou says,

“It is done.”

And it is.

* * *

Should have fucking known, a voice in his head says. Should have gone. Should have stopped him.

Neil is so stubborn. So alive.

He walks into the locker room and Andrew sees—or doesn’t see, rather—something in his eyes. A little absence that makes all the difference in the world. Like someone was painting and forgot to add the gleam of life in the blue color. A shine that never made it to print.

Something roars in Andrew’s ears. His heart hammers in his chest, oddly reminiscent of the drugs he used to be given. He watches Neil methodically start to pull his gear off and then pause to look down at his duffel bag.

Nicky inhales sharply. Makes a strangled noise and Andrew looks—follows his gaze, dread heavy in his chest—and sees the spot.

The incriminating drop of blood on his cheek.

Andrew moves before he decides to. His feet take him to Neil and he reaches out, only to see Neil sway to avoid him. It should hurt, but Andrew can see that Neil isn’t there. He isn’t standing in front of Andrew; he is still up in that box, surrounded by the Moriyamas.

“Where?” Andrew asks. It is so close to a demand that he bites his tongue and tastes the copper.

Neil stirs, just a little. Surfaces enough to take a breath. “No,” he says. “No. Not—”

He can’t finish. Neil pauses, holds up a finger, and walks toward the bathroom stalls. Andrew can see the precise moment that he slides sideways, to make room for Nathaniel.

It’s only then that Andrew realizes Nathaniel wasn’t there. Not at the moment that he was needed. That something kept him from being the shield between Neil and violence, even if only for the moment.

The Foxes hear Neil vomit in the stall, but there can’t be anything in his stomach. Not after the game.

Seth’s fist clenches at his side and he presses it against the locker before him. He wants to do more, but he doesn’t. He knows better.

Because of Neil.

Andrew thinks he knows. Thinks that of course, Neil was the one that went up into that box. It’s always him, when he’s about to die. Always him that does something stupid for the team—for his _friends_ —and faces death like someone that has always believed he should be dead already.

Nathaniel will always keep Neil safe, Andrew thinks, right up until the moment that Neil decides he wants to step in front of danger for his Foxes.

And they are his. They are his, because Matt doesn’t say anything about what happened and instead, hands Neil a water bottle. Seth keeps his distance, only so he can watch Neil’s back as they leave. Allison gives him her noise-cancelling headphones, no music, so Neil can let the silence engulf him.

And Andrew—

—Andrew holds Neil’s hand between them on the seat of the bus. That much, he can give.

* * *

One thing Nathaniel had become used to, was the necessity of death.

It had happened so much, he’d learned that it just had to be, sometimes. Nathan. Mary. Lola. Death was not something Nathaniel ran from. He had watched his mother choke on life, watched his father burn, watched Lola fall to the ground. It was all the same.

Until it wasn’t.

Because Nathaniel was buried in Baltimore; he lay there, only to be used when absolutely necessary. Neil was a reluctant necromancer and the skeleton in his closet just wouldn’t stay put. Nathaniel was there when Ichirou came to visit, and Neil knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

But for now, Nathaniel was at rest, and that meant that Neil was the one that had to live. He was the one that had dreams—or not—at night. The one that held Andrew and was held. The one that went to practice and counted down the days until the final game.

Neil woke up.

He was the one that woke, Saturday at 4 am, something like terror rising up his throat. Neil gasped and wondered if he had been breathing, just before. There was pain in his chest and he was dizzy, spots blinking in his eyes. It hurt. He only knew flashes of blood and fragments of bone; warmth on his face. A cold click and the echo of a bang. Neil sucked in breath like his throat was a straw and his world was burning, the smoke rising to choke him.

Someone said something that he didn’t hear and then—

—a slap.

Something snaps into place. Neil’s chest slows its heaving just a little and he looks around him, because he can’t decipher the scene. A light is on and he squints, eyes adjusting like the thing in his chest. The fear, he thinks.

Neil’s cheek is warm. Seth kneels by the bed, one hand hovering midair, uncertain. He looks—concerned. It’s a strange look on him. He has been aggravated, annoyed, tense. Not this. Seth watches Neil like he is waiting for Neil to fall apart and trying to memorize where all the pieces go.

“I—”

“You are not fine,” Matt says. His voice is mangled in his throat. His hand curls tight around the bedframe and Neil wonders when Matt woke up. They stare at each other from across the room and Neil doesn’t know what to say.

Seth lowers himself to sit on the ground. “Do you need him?”

It’s—

—that. That, is shocking. Neil is genuinely shocked. Not only because Seth knows who to ask about, but also because Seth willingly brings up the subject. Seth is asking if Neil wants Andrew and that is not something Neil is prepared for.

Neil runs a tongue over his teeth. Bitterness still clings to his mouth and he wants to shake the sleep away, but he can’t. He looks down at Seth and considers.

He should talk to Andrew, or maybe ask. Maybe figure out where they are in the aftermath of the game and how much Neil can say.

For now, Neil just wants to forget. He wants to sleep.

“Will you stay here?” Neil finally asks. He is amazed that he can even ask. Nathaniel would never. “Just—”

“Yes,” Seth says. There is no question or amusement in his eyes. No exasperation. He just agrees and then props himself up against Neil’s bed, arm still on the mattress.

Matt watches and lowers himself back onto his bed. Blinks heavily. “We’re not going to leave,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”

“You graduate this year,” Neil mumbles. He says it because he has to—because he is at home in his sharp remarks and humor. In Neil, who is real and alive and has people that care about him.

Matt laughs quietly. Neil feels his eyelids start to fall again, despite the pain and fear and uncertainty. He hears Matt’s voice as he starts to drift, again.

“I won’t ever leave you. Not really.”

* * *

Neil wakes up because someone’s hand is in his hair.

Well. Maybe not because of it, but he feels it, the second he wakes up. It’s a steady hand that combs through the strands and makes him feel oddly warm.

It is almost hilarious that Neil opens his eyes to find Seth with a cup of coffee, absently petting Neil’s head.

“What time is it?”

Seth barely glances his way. Like he is not currently being bizarrely familiar with Neil. “Noon.”

Neil’s eyebrows raise. “I missed class. You let me miss class.”

“It’s the day after the game,” Seth snorts. “You’re excused.”

“Not really.”

“Really.”

Neil just sighs. A long exhale, like he is exorcising the darkness from the night before. He only wants to close his eyes and open them to tomorrow.

He is living tomorrow, he realizes.

Ri—his contract is done. Kevin has told him to stay if he wants; Andrew has asked him to stay. The others support him. There is a place for Neil, if he wants it. A place, because Lola has been named as the Butcher and Bella has hidden away what assets she can while she keeps a silent hold over the spiderweb.

Neil could be here. He could live. Nathaniel isn’t necessary, anymore. The Moriyamas have fallen apart under their own weight and Nathaniel trusts his seconds—Bella and Dietrich—to hold his empire. To keep it all together, because there is always a chance it will be needed again.

“You’re thinking too much,” Seth suddenly says. “You’re supposed to be skipping.”

Neil stifles a yawn and stretches. “I’ve never skipped, before.”

“Liar.” A little smile. One that Seth never shows. “Nicky wants us all to have lunch. If you’re up for it.”

“Sure.”

“Good. Get dressed.”

Neil swings his legs out of bed and misses the weight on his head. He wants to reach up and touch it, but part of him irrationally thinks it will erase the sensation. Seth shoves a hand in his pocket and sips his coffee before he adds, “Andrew is in the living room. We leave at one. Don’t be late.”

And, in the culmination of the most uncharacteristically kind thing Seth has ever done, he leaves the dorm and locks the door behind him.

Neil looks through the open bedroom door, to Andrew, who sits on the couch and impassively stares back.

Well.

“I should shower,” Neil says. He doesn’t mean anything by it, but he says it and realizes that it probably doesn’t seem that way.

Andrew pulls himself off the couch. He examines Neil as if he expects to find something out of place—a missing limb or a new, horrid scar—but he doesn’t touch, yet. Andrew just explores with his eyes and Neil feels as if he’s burning under his gaze.

There is a lot they could say. Always. But Neil and Andrew have their thoughts about words and sometimes, actions can feel so much more concrete.

“You are going to be in my room,” Andrew says. No question. Just simple fact. “Nicky can move here.”

“I thought the rooms could fit four.”

“It’ll be good for them,” Andrew says. Neil wonders if he actually believes that.

Not that he cares too much, with Andrew’s hand slowly tracing up Neil’s arm. This is an entirely different touch. Neil holds his breath, not out of anything negative but because he’s not sure what he’ll say if he just lets it out.

It takes a good minute to string words together. “You don’t have to.”

He never has to. Andrew has never needed to be this patient. Neil is acutely aware of all the things he has done and not done; the way he missed all the little signs along the way. How Andrew watched him long before Neil knew he liked it when Andrew watched. The patience, even once they started, and how Andrew always explored Neil slowly. Every time was the first, with him.

“No. But I want to,” Andrew says.

That word. That one word. _Want._ It never used to have a home, with either of them.

Like everything else. Neil has lived in so many houses—Arizona, Baltimore, cities on the run—but he has never had a home. Not like the one he can’t name, with the Foxes and Andrew’s hand on his cheek.

“Okay,” Neil says. _Okay_.

Andrew follows him into the bathroom. It’s strange, not having to constantly worry. Neil has always felt like an imposter; like he is just Nathaniel, playing with a name that isn’t his and a life that could never belong to him. Now—with all the time in the world and Andrew holding him in place—Neil feels right at home.

More than that, he feels like he has a place.

Andrew’s hands map out invisible countries on Neil’s chest and he says, “You are thinking too much.”

“I’m thinking about the right things,” Neil says. He leans in, just to press his cheek against Andrew’s and feel the softness of his skin. He wants to die like this; consumed by his thoughts and grounded with touch.

But not anytime soon. Neil has a lot of living to make up for.

Andrew finds Neil’s mouth and murmurs, breath hot against Neil’s lips, “Waist up. Yes or no?”

“Always yes,” Neil says. He smiles a little when Andrew grumbles, but doesn’t correct him. “Always.”

It is the last thing Neil says before Andrew’s mouth is on his, warm and practiced. They haven’t been like this—together, somehow—long enough for Andrew to know Neil so well, but he does. Andrew knows every place to touch and all the ways to make Neil fall apart. So, maybe they are different or maybe Neil is just that easy to please. Neil can’t bring himself to care which is true; not when his entire world is the person before him. The smell of Andrew’s laundry detergent and the roughness of his palms, in the places where he holds his racquet.

“I’m supposed to shower,” Neil manages to gasp, once Andrew has pulled Neil’s shirt off, like it committed some offense.

Andrew grunt in acknowledgement; he pulls away from Neil’s chest only long enough to say, “You can’t multitask?”

Neil snorts. “How are you going to make it back to your room if you’re soaked?”

He only meant to tease Andrew, but then Andrew pulls his black shirt off while staring Neil down and that—

—that, does more than just overload Neil. If his eyes could be dizzy, they would.

“Oh,” Neil says. It’s all he can say. Andrew just huffs and pulls him toward the shower.

Neil doesn’t think about how funny Andrew looks, blindly fumbling with the temperature. He’s too busy trying to show Andrew how much he understands. How he knows the kind of trust that Andrew is giving him, by pulling away all the layers between them. All the safeguards.

It is not the first time Neil has thought that he shouldn’t be trusted. That none of the Foxes should trust him. He is the Butcher. He is not someone that should be trusted; he should not be given this precious intimacy. He is a scary story meant to warn the most dangerous people in the world.

Except Andrew says his name, _Neil_ , and Neil is not the Butcher. He is not bound or held in place by cutting wire. Neil is a Fox, a starting striker, and he is Andrew’s.

Of course, he is. Andrew kisses him, and Neil loses all his breath willingly. It bleeds from his lungs and Neil doesn’t mind the way it leaves him with a buzz on his skin and a haze in his head. He only needs Andrew’s hands to hold him anyway.

So, Neil explores the surface of Andrew’s body and thinks about how much he wants. How he has never been allowed and now, in a burst, all his want is centered around one being. Neil isn’t sure if it’s right or if it will last, but he knows that it’s there, now. That he will chase after it with all the energy left in his body.

Andrew’s hand presses against his stomach—moves further down, determined, and then Neil sighs. This is a sensation too familiar and not familiar enough; he remembers it in fragments. Feels it new when Andrew strokes him like he is not scarred and broken. Like they are two people—just people—and all they need is each other.

Maybe they are.

Neil leans closer, half because he is too dizzy to hold himself away properly and half because Andrew’s neck is there and waiting. Neil presses his tongue and teeth against the skin just to feel tremors run through Andrew’s body. He can’t do much more, with his heart pounding in time to the water falling over them.

Andrew pushes him against the wall and Neil is held up between them, every part of his body on fire while Andrew suddenly kisses him. Neil feels the tension coiled low in his body suddenly flare, like the click of a lighter or a match struck to life. His fingers dig into Andrew’s shoulders, sudden reflex, and it’s important that Andrew doesn’t push him away. That the touch is only accepted, like all the others.

Maybe Andrew doesn’t let Neil touch him so intimately yet, but he stays right there and doesn’t tell Neil to look away. That is its own gift; one so huge that Neil feels a rush of absolute affection in his veins. Neil is allowed to see this—the way Andrew’s cheeks are flushed, the dip between his brows, the catch of breath on his parted lips. Neil is allowed, and that is more than enough. All of it is.

They both wander toward reality a little slower than they probably should. Neil distantly wonders if the others are still waiting. “I don’t think we did much multitasking,” he finally says.

Andrew snorts. His hand creeps up Neil’s chest, blunt nails a reminder when they scratch against Neil’s skin. “They can wait.”

“They can,” Neil agrees. “But, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

Andrew sighs. Finds a bottle of shampoo and unceremoniously dumps some on Neil’s head. “There.”

Neil can’t help his smile. It sticks even when Andrew huffs; it gets wider when Andrew tugs his neck and starts to work his fingers through Neil’s hair.

He could stay there forever. Neil wishes he could; just the water and them.

“We should go to the beach,” Neil says. He decides it right then—because why not, he thinks; why not replace everything from before? He needs a good memory and he thinks he’d like to test the salt on his tongue against Andrew. He knows Andrew will win.

But, it’s the thought that counts.

Andrew just directs Neil’s head toward the shower spray, but his hand does linger on Neil’s neck. “Lunch, first.”

“Yes,” Neil agrees. “Lunch, first.”

They can take things one at a time. They have that luxury, now.

* * *

“I don’t think…I mean, I haven’t said thank you.”

Neil pauses with a spoon halfway to his mouth. His hair is still a wild mess—he’s in desperate need of a haircut, but he likes the way Andrew’s fingers feel in it and Neil can’t quite bring himself to do anything.

Neil considers his cereal for a moment. The corn flakes are going to get soggy, but he slides the bowl onto the counter. This is important.

“I don’t think you need to—”

Kevin makes one of his noises; number three, the distressed one. “I do. I—”

“Asked me to come and do a job,” Neil finishes. “I did. I did what you asked. You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“You did not just do what I asked,” Kevin says. He smiles a little, sardonic but real. “I didn’t even know what I was asking you for.”

Neil shrugs. “I offered a specific service,” he says. Doesn’t linger on the past tense. “It was pretty obvious.”

Kevin gives Neil a long stare that probably means, _I’m trying, here_ , but Neil ignores it. He knows enough to know the little knot of tension in Kevin’s shoulders and the way he lingers in the doorway. This is a conversation he probably never expected to have.

This is a life he probably never expected to have. Life, past Riko. Free.

So, Neil picks up his bowl and stirs around the cereal. Shoves some into his mouth and remembers to say, mouth partially full, “I need a haircut. Nicky wants to take me.”

That—that just weaves through Kevin like magic. He relaxes by inches, until he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. He scrutinizes Neil with a sharp gaze. “Hm,” he murmurs. It might be agreement. “It’ll have to be good. You shouldn’t change much in your career. Practicality is better, especially if it grows fast.”

Neil lets Kevin prattle on about salons and professional Exy players while he finishes his cereal. He doesn’t tune everything out because, if Neil is going to live—

—if he is going to pursue this, to the very ends of it all—

—he has to learn.

He’s just glad that there are people that want to teach him. Even if Kevin doesn’t shut up when Andrew comes in and stares at him for a good five minutes.

* * *

Neil moves everything into the room with Andrew. It’s strange, to be the one with him. It’s strange to know that so many of their friends will be gone, when the semester is over. Neil feels a little ache in his chest at the thought.

He wants to be selfish. Wants to say, _I didn’t have them long enough._ He only just met the Foxes and now, he has to watch them go. Watch them grow, while he stays firmly planted where they placed him. Neil is just grateful for the warmth of the earth he is enveloped by. He could be so much worse off, he thinks. So much more damaged.

“I wanted to stop by,” Jean says. Neil turns to see him, by the open door. The Foxes are in the girls’ room, to argue about ordering takeout.

“Why?”

“I’m leaving. The Trojans will take me,” Jean explains. He gives this information freely, but there is a tremor to the confession. A shiver of anticipation. Maybe he expects anger, or refusal.

Neil crosses the room and stands before Jean. Thinks of a little boy with his head framed in sunlight. The French countryside with its multicolored blooms. “Okay,” Neil says. Quiet. “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” Jean says. Soft, but certain.

They’ve both moved. Neil thinks Jean knows that, too. His smile is a little more real than it’s ever been. Neil almost says something about it, but then someone else comes in and stops short.

“Oh,” Dietrich says. His gaze flickers between Neil and Jean. “I’ll—”

“It’s fine,” Neil says. “Have you met Jean?”

Dietrich smiles to himself. Like he remembers something. “No. I only watched, like you asked.”

Jean frowns. Glances at Neil. _Ah._ Neil clears his throat; shrugs with one shoulder. “I had a watch on everyone, until the last game. Of course.”

“You’re the one that watched me?” Jean asks Dietrich. Neil feels like the intruder, now. He wonders if he was right, when he thought they would get along.

Dietrich shrugs. “Once you were here. My attention was divided, depending on the day. But I did watch you. You really like lime Jell-O, don’t you?”

Neil almost chokes on his spit. As it is, he turns halfway from Jean and Dietrich. He can’t hold his laughter in for long. He only sees Jean, out of the corner of his eye, with a halfway-mortified expression. A curious flush on his cheeks.

“I—that’s not funny,” Jean says, but his raging blush and the way he can’t keep eye contact tell a very interesting story.

Dietrich smiles. His charm is in full swing and Neil shakes his head. If there is one thing Dietrich is good for, it is action. He is the type that hits the problem, to fix it.

Except now, apparently. Dietrich just shrugs and says, “It is very good. The cafeteria doesn’t have a limit, either. Why not take advantage? Better to enjoy the small pleasures in life, while you are living.”

“Okay,” Neil finally says. He’s not sure he wants to know where any of this goes. “Why did you stop by?”

“Just to tell you that things have been wrapped up quite neatly,” Dietrich says. “Bella has the network in place, for when things die down. You know I will always keep in touch.”

His tone is more serious. Appropriate, given that this is as close to a farewell as they can come to. Neil will never really leave the Butcher, just like his web will always stick to his skin.

But maybe that’s fine. Maybe it’s also fine that Neil will miss some of the people he is going to leave behind, where Nathaniel and the Butcher were raised. Maybe it is fine to bury those bones, in the care of people he trusts with his life.

“Okay,” Neil says. He nods. It’s all he can do. “Thank you. Good luck.”

“No luck,” Dietrich replies. Smiles a little, when he recites those same words Neil spoke when he rose to the throne years ago. “Practice, and skill. Only the best.”

“Only the best,” Neil agrees. He thinks he has a name for the ache in his heart. He calls it fondness.

Dietrich turns to Jean, a little smile on his lips. “Why don’t I walk you down? One last job, before I leave.”

“Sure,” Jean says. “But you owe me a secret. It’s only right.”

Neil does laugh, this time. Thinks about rooftops and cigarettes. Dietrich just grins wider at the suggestion and gestures toward the door, inviting. “It takes a while for the elevator to get to ground level. Ask away.”

* * *

Neil wakes up slowly. The taste of sleep lingers in his mouth and there is a tiny crack in the blinds that lets a sliver of sunlight through. Someone tried to pull them shut, though. Probably Kevin. That’s a new thing, but one that Neil appreciates. The little gestures.

He is warm. Partly because of the blanket on him and partly because of the other body attached to his; the legs tangled with his and the arms around him.

Andrew’s head is tucked into the junction of Neil’s neck and shoulder, and it could possibly be the closest thing to heaven Neil will ever experience.

While he watches, Andrew sighs through his nose. Presses his face closer. Neil tries not to jump or move, but he knows his pulse is beating just a little faster. Obvious.

“Sleep,” Andrew says. He is very warm. Neil has always assumed it is his metabolism; Andrew might be small, but he is definitely a well of strength. Power. There is a lot to him, especially in the mornings, when no one is looking. No one but Neil.

Neil turns a little, just to be closer. Looks at the pale fan of Andrew’s lashes against his cheeks. Neil whispers when he speaks, because the quiet between them is sacred. “What if we stayed here all day?”

“Then we would be here all day.”

Simple. Neil smiles a little. His hand ventures forward and finds the edge of Andrew’s jaw. This is an accepted touch. There are little ones, that took time. Brushes and weight that are not pushed away. Not bad. Good.

“Someone will come in. They’ll need the room,” Neil finally says.

Finally, one of Andrew’s eyes cracks open. The other follows, warm earth-brown and green. Perfect. He is so close. “They won’t. It’s ours.”

Neil laughs. “It’s not just ours. It’s theirs, too.”

“Yes. It is ours,” Andrew repeats, and then—then, Neil understands. “They won’t bother us.”

He probably should have thought about it before, but of course, Neil didn’t. He didn’t think in long-term or about what everyone around him would feel about him. Neil wasn’t supposed to last this long, and he keeps accidentally remembering that wait, the Foxes care. They care about him, and Andrew, and him and Andrew.

Neil somehow worms closer to Andrew and tries not to feel too stupidly soft when he thinks about that. When he thinks that Andrew is right—they will be given the room, if they need it. They have room with the Foxes, to be safe and withdraw if they need to.

“Okay,” Neil says.

“So? What do you want?” Patient. Andrew is so patient. “Stay here?”

Neil curls his fingers in Andrew’s hair and tilts his lips toward Andrew’s neck. He places a kiss there right along his favorite word. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh this has been a ride ya'll
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story! I really wanted to make sure the end was fitting and I'm not sure if I accomplished that, but...there you go. For those who are curious, next up is probably going to be another multichap AU...involving high magic ;D

**Author's Note:**

> heeeeeyyyyyy it's been a hot sec but I really needed a moment to order myself (i'm still not in order haha when will i ever be)  
> I hope you all enjoy this!!! I had a request for Butcher!Neil and I really liked the idea, and I might do a separate fic later for the Reverse Bang. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for continuing to read, I love you so much. Really. Thank you.
> 
> (also i know the title is really on the nose aslkdgilasjg;lsla but the song is good so,,,)


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